


Blood Ties

by Dordean



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Confrontations, F/F, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Long live the Queen, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon, What if Ciri had other options, alternative endings, if you can call it that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-12 07:32:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean
Summary: A grey pebble in the mill-cog of destiny.You, who spilled blood; you, who drank blood.The crossroads now lay ahead.What will you choose: freedom or power? To succumb to your fate - or to shape it? Safety of idleness, or courage: to act, to fight for who you are?You are at the crossroads. Choose.***Ciri on the Path, Regis in exile; but that is not the end - for either of them.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A witcheress, a vampire and a withdrawal syndrome. I own none, though love them all. A certain witcheress hijacked my imagination and chose it as a vessel to tell her story - and it's entirely her story. I was merely trying to keep up.
> 
> Post game, post Blood and Wine, contains spoilers to both. An attempt to make sense of some of the glaring plotholes in the game; an attempt to reconcile with the fact that the game is now officially over. An attempt to give my favourite characters a chance to meet and give Ciri a more fitting ending. 
> 
> This story is originally written in Polish and is nearly complete - and only gods know how it has now reached over 44 thousand words. I'm working on a translation - bear with me...

 

 

 

>   “And the vilest of them all are vampyres. Thinking like us, looking like us but filled with evil and malice, no traces of good can ever be found in them. Sooner a basilisk might have mercy and not kill his prey than a vampire shows a sign of conscience; for they want one thing and one thing only – your blood, and thus your death.”
> 
>  
> 
> Vince de Bouver “Monsters of the North”, part V  

***

Regis’ initial plan had been to travel south, deep into the nilfgaardian territory, to take advantage of the fact that its society was far more modern and no longer believed in fairy tales and monsters – including vampires. But some unexplained sentiment he must have picked up from humans made him want to see Dillingen one more time before he left the Northern Kingdoms for good. For this reason, upon leaving Toussaint, he chose the direction opposite to what the reason would have suggested.

 The reality, however, had quickly verified his plans. It became painfully clear he was in no shape for such journey: he didn’t have the strength to travel in his invisible form and the act of concealing his nature from the human folk he encountered was too exhausting. Still not fully recovered and haunted by the tragic events in Beauclair, he decided to hide in the Maribor forests. After a few long days of wandering around, he came upon an abandoned hunter’s cottage that suited his needs just fine. There he hid from the world, from humans, from his own kin and potential pursuers. But from the anger and despair, there was no escape.

 He had barely any memories of that first winter. The guilt and pain he felt after killing Detlaff, his blood brother, his saviour, were poisoning his every waking moment, driving him to the edges of reason. He knew Detlaff had left him with no choice; his friend was beyond the reach of reasoning, in a state of fury after the woman he loved betrayed him – again - and so no other option remained to not only save Geralt but also the entire Beauclair, which was at the time being quite literally bled dry by the hordes of vampires Detlaff summoned. Detlaff; the one who saved him from that unimaginable, icy terror after Regis nearly died of Vilgefortz hand. Detlaff, who gave his own blood to him, with no hesitation or regret – a sacrifice without which any regeneration would simply not be possible. And how did he repay him?

 Regis did try, desperately, to find a solution where nobody got hurt. Unfortunately, Detlaff was already unstoppable at that point; lost in his suffering, he allowed his bestial, cruel form to take over. Regis should have foreseen this; he should have known, he never should have let things got that far. When Detlaff attacked Geralt, it was already far too late for any non-violent resolution. And then the decision: to stand by and witness a death of a dear friend or to try and save him – by killing the other? The deeply tragic choice that he had faced and that he had made – and the consequences of that choice he now had to endure, consequences that were driving him mad in the suffocating darkness of that first winter. Despair, regret, and unbearable pain. There were moments, then, in the black emptiness devoid of all light or hope, when hiding seemed pointless, when the vision of returning to Beauclair to be found – and punished – felt like a relief.

***

It was already late summer when he felt a little better. He remembered the day when a ray of sunlight penetrated the darkness of his hideout and as he watched the dust dancing in the single beam of light, he felt he wanted to see the sky again. That night he ventured outside for the first time in months. Still too weak for any real activity, he simply sat there, breathing the air, listening to all the life around him. He survived. He could never hope to mend, to feel whole ever again, but he wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

 But as his nightmare released its grip on him and his strength came back, so did the dilemmas. Dilemmas that had been troubling him for a while now. As he regenerated, he once more began to question his decision to alienate himself from his kin and try and integrate with humans instead. The hopes he once harboured that one day he would be able to live amongst them without having to conceal his nature turned out to be deeply naïve. At the same time he was painfully aware he was no longer able to live among his own – but even so, the knowledge that his actions made him anathema, made him side with the human folk, potentially for eternity, hurt him deeply.

 Why was he doing it? Why did he constantly put humans over his own kind, his own wellbeing? Why was he always choosing suffering and loneliness, unavoidable in the light of his actions? Those questions, rhetorical and pointless in nature, still haunted him mercilessly, even though he himself had all the answers. He knew perfectly well why he was making all those decisions, what debt he was hopelessly trying to repay all those long years. The inhumane screams of a nameless peasant woman as the cries of her infant child stopped; that soft sound a small, lifeless body makes as it hits the ground. A room, filled with moonlight and blood, being slowly engulfed by the fire. This and many other memories still came back to him in his dreams, even though he had lost the count of the centuries that had passed. But there are things you cannot – and shouldn’t – forget, things you cannot make up for to anyone, acts you cannot expect to be forgiven for.

 He knew that loneliness was a price he had to pay for his actions and his choices. Most of the time he made peace with this. But not always.

Not always.


	2. Chapter 2

***

After yet another winter had passed without any incident, Regis ventured outside his hiding place and visited the nearest village. The local folk treated him with distrust and suspicion at first, but they eventually got used to him and even began to seek his advice and his medical knowledge.

It was from them that he first heard the news of a basilisk in the area. He was walking down to the village to trade some potions and advice for supplies and some news from the outside world when he came across a small and clearly agitated group of local farmers.

“Eli did say not to go, did he not!” wailed Juha, a white-haired elder of the village. “What now? How will we tell Johnny’s wife, eh?”

“Eh, a whoreson,” Sulich, the tallest of them, spat on the ground. “Where does this scum come from?”

“Morning, gentlemen” Regis greeted them as he approached the group. “Problems?”

“Good day to you, master barber-surgeon.” Juha turned to him.

“You won’t believe,” Bern, a red-haired blacksmith, shook his head impatiently. “Basilisk moved into the caves near the river. And Sulich’s brother here decided to bloody try and kick him out. The monster spread his bones in a neat line along the river…”

“Dreadful news indeed,” Regis shook his head. “Let me guess, he took a mirror?”

“Mirror! I’ve never seen anything like that, no idea where he got it from,” Juha snorted. “But it didn’t do him much good, did it. Such tragedy. He was a drunk and a liar, but a tragedy still.” he glanced at Sulich.

“Aye. You speak true, old man. What to do…”

“Any witchers in the area?” Regis suggested. “Wouldn’t it be worth to send messages out that there’s a contract?”

“Witchers! All disappeared somewhere after the war. Years since we saw any in the area.”

“But that would be the best solution, would it not? That, and avoiding the caves, naturally. With or without a mirror.”

The men exchanged glances.

“We’ll discuss it with the others,” said Sulich eventually. “Heading to the village, master barber?”

“Indeed I am.”

“And do you happen to have anything for… Err… Strength...?”

Regis smiled and shuffled through the contents of his pouch until he retrieved a small vial filled with yellowish liquid.

“Two drops twice a day, with a meal,” he instructed. “And full night’ sleep.”

Sulich smiled with relief.

“Thank you, good sir. I’ll leave aside a chicken or two for you.”

“I’ll be obliged. Till later, gentlemen.”

“Godspeed, master barber-surgeon.”

***

It was a month later when he heard about an ashen-haired witcheress. Foul-mouthed, the locals said unanimously. Young and comely, but to approach her closer than a horse-length would be unwise: for she had strange eyes and an evil look in them that made one think twice before speaking. Besides, who heard of a lass fighting monsters? True, there were tales of her sword skills, but monsters?

The ashen-haired woman rode out of the village to hunt the basilisk three days prior. A day after she left a small military patrol arrived, asking about her.

He was quite surprised that Ciri – for it must have been her – still lived a life on the Path. Geralt did mention back in Toussaint that this was what she decided to do after the Wild Hunt was defeated, but Regis had assumed that the hardships of the wandering life would eventually get her to rethink her decision. He clearly had underestimated her love of adventures – or her stubbornness.

The news it was her who took the basilisk contract was worrying, but the news about the soldiers looking for her was even worse. He decided to personally make sure not a gray hair fell off her head. Otherwise, how would he ever face Geralt again?

***

He found the soldiers in the forest in the early evening. They set up a camp near the crossroads, between the village and the river. Nilfgaardians; five of them. The eldest of the group noticed him first.

“You, there!”

Regis approached them obediently.

“How may I help you, gentlemen?”

“A girl on a black horse. Have you seen her?”

“Unfortunately, not. Local girls do not own or ride horses.”

“The girl is no local peasant,” A younger soldier sitting beside the fire snorted. “And she does many things she’s not supposed to do.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t seen anyone matching that description,” he shook his head, reading their thoughts at the same time. Most of the group didn’t offer anything of value, focused on the next meal and the innkeeper’s daughter. Their leader, however…

“ _She couldn’t have gone far. Not with that kind of a wound. And Cyrus definitely hit her, I saw her falter in the saddle. We just need to search the nearby ravines and the corpse will find itself. And then just tell the emperor that basilisk wounded her and she died of poison… We won’t even be lying. And with that reward, I’ll finally pay the rest of the debts… What the fuck is this one still here for? Stinks like seven hells.”_

Fear froze vampire’s blood but he forced himself to remain calm.

“Anything else I can do for you, sirs?”

The young one who spoke earlier looked at his commander but he just waved his hand.

“If you do see her, do not hesitate to come and find us,” he said with barely concealed malice.

Regis bowed and walked away. He felt their eyes on him as he purposefully moved away from his hideout. He felt the scraps of the thoughts he read flashing through his mind. Badly wounded. Poison. He had to find her. Immediately.

He waited until he was well out of their eyesight to change. Luckily for him, the moon was full. He started in the caves area, where he managed to find the traces of her blood. Once he established the direction of her escape, he began a methodical search of the woods. It took him few hours before he spotted her, lying inside a small clearing hidden behind seemingly impenetrable bushes, only visible from above. Her horse was standing guard and it loudly voiced its disapproval when he changed back into a human form and approached them.

He examined her wounds, found and removed the poisoned bolt, disinfected the cuts and sucked out as much poison as he could. He tried feeding her some milfoil potion, but with little success. She was burning, her breath shallow, her pulse weak. She lost a lot of blood and Regis could smell the poison and the infection running in her veins. The realisation that he might have been too late nearly paralysed him. Forcing himself to remain calm, he considered his options. They were approximately an hour’s flight away from his hut and so the horse was his only option. Ciri’s mare protested again at first, clearly not impressed with his strong scent, but luckily she calmed down quickly enough and allowed him to put Ciri in the saddle. She didn’t flush when he mounted her either. As gently as possible he held Ciri’s limp body with one arm while steering the horse with his free hand. A few times Ciri nearly slipped out of his embrace, but he managed to hold her each time. It was a long and tiresome journey; the sun was rising by the time they finally reached his hut. He managed to dismount with Ciri in his arms.

Once inside, he put her to bed, washed and dressed her wounds. He gave her some potions, with marginally more success. The girl was still in a critical condition although her pulse felt a little stronger. He sat beside her and watched for any changes. After few hours she started to shake violently, her fever intensified. He changed the cold towels, wiped away the sweat, gave her water. In the evening of the second day, he finally sensed the poison in her blood dissolving, but she was still fighting the infection.

Three days she fought for life; three days he sat beside her, watching her closely, waiting for any signs of her condition improving. At the end of the fourth day the fever final eased off and the worst was over.

***

He heard a movement behind his back.

“Hello Ciri,” he said in a gentle tone, turning to face her. Dazed, she looked around the hut before fixing her eyes on him. He walked over to the side of the bed and put his hand on her forehead. “You're safe.”

“My swords... My horse...”

“They're here. Also safe.”

“Those soldiers...”

“They won't find this place.”

Her gaze focused on him again with visible difficulty.

“Thank you,” she paused for a moment. “I...remember you.”

He smiled at her.

“I'm flattered. But you need to rest now. We shall talk more once you've gained some strength.”

***

She slept for another day and a half. When she eventually woke up, she was feeling stronger - and hungry. He fed her rabbit broth and watched as colour returned to her face. Then he changed the bandages – the wounds were healing quite nicely but they were bound to leave new scars. He felt her gaze on him as he was tending to her; a measuring look of those emerald eyes of hers, one of but a few things about her that remained the same when almost everything else had changed beyond recognition in the years that passed since the time they met.

“I remember your face,” she said quietly. “But I can’t remember anything else and it drives me mad.”

“I’m surprised you remember me at all, our meeting was very brief,” he replied and smiled, ever so slightly baring his teeth.

She jerked in surprise, inhaling sharply.

“Vilgefortz,” she muttered. “You’re that vampire who rescued me. I don’t remember your name…”

“Emiel Regis Roehellec Therzief-Godefroy, at your Witcher Highness’ service.”

She snorted and winced in pain.

“Don’t make your patients laugh,” she fell silent for a moment, thinking. “But… Geralt said you died there…?”

“Vilgefortz nearly succeeded in killing me… I wouldn’t have been able to regenerate on my own. But another vampire found me and saved my life.” He felt pangs of pain and guilt, his usual companions whenever he thought of Detlaff.

Ciri was watching him closely.

“A friend?” she asked. He waved his hand dismissively.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’d be interested to hear it.”

“And I would be very interested to hear about you, witcheress. But you are still as weak as a hatchling so until you’ve recovered a little any long stories will simply have to wait.” 

She made a face and he smiled. He might have recognised her by her expressions, too.

She was silent for another moment.

“Thank you,” she said eventually in a quiet voice. “For rescuing me then, I never had a chance… And for rescuing me now. I owe you a great debt of gratitude, vampire.”

“Back then, that was Geralt.” he smiled. He enjoyed reliving those memories; memories of a company, of an unexpected friendship, of a quest to find her, Ciri. Yes, he was very fond of those memories. Except for the memories of how that quest ended for him, naturally. “He inspired us all with his tenacity and determination, his complete disregard for seemingly impossible obstacles, his hope, his madness; his love. Most impressive; especially for a mutant stripped of all emotions, as he likes to call himself.”

She smiled, a first weak smile since she came to.

“Now…” he continued. “Now you were lucky to have found yourself here. It took no small effort to find you and I did so at the very last moment. I was afraid I was too late.”

“Lucky…” she repeated. “Guess I was. If you believe in such a thing. Do you, Regis?”

“In my experience luck is simply a chain of random events that turned out well for us,” he smiled.

She snorted and winced again. He handed her a mug with another herbal mixture and gently helped her to sit up.

“Am I supposed to drink it?” She sniffed at the mug’s contents with suspicion.

“Doctor’s orders,” he told her. “Against fever, infection; some herbs to improve your blood coagulation and some more to induce sleep. For the moment you need rest above all.”

He held the mug while she reluctantly drank the mixture.

“Gods, this is awful.”

“On the contrary.” Ciri was still mumbling some protests as he helped her to lay down, cleaned her wounds and put fresh bandages. “It is only your sense of taste that is not used to analyse and thus unable to appreciate such a complicated bouquet.” He turned to put away the bandages and instruments. When he looked back at her, she was already asleep.

***

“Those soldiers… Do you know anything about them?”

Regis was trying to assess her physical and mental condition before answering.

“They were asking about you in the area. They were given orders to find you.”

“Which is why they shot those poisoned belts at me?” she grimaced. “I wonder who sent them…”

“The emperor. But things do get a little complicated here.” He sat down with a sigh, pouring some herbal tea for them both. “I was reading them as they were questioning me,” he explained seeing her puzzled expression. She nodded for him to continue. “You see, emperor Emhyr himself had sent them with orders to find you and bring you back to the capital. With care and reverence. But afterwards they got a better offer for getting rid of you.”

Ciri was silent for a while.

“It seems my father’s enemies are much closer than he thinks,” she said.

Regis looked at her in surprise.

“Your father?” he repeated.

She made a face.

“Geralt didn’t tell you about me?”

“Not in much detail, clearly. In Dillingen, where I lived before the war, I did hear the Surprise Child story in many stage adaptations of varying quality levels… Duny of Erdenwald was emperor Emhyr himself?”

“Geralt figured it out on his own… What?” she asked, noticing his expression.

“Nothing of importance, Ciri. Do continue.”

She eyed him suspiciously.

“Like I said, Geralt knew. Yennefer figured it out as well, I think, in Vilgefortz’ castle. As for me… Emhyr told me himself, in the same circumstances, abandoning his sick plans to marry me.”

“Was it then when he decided to marry the false Cirilla?” he interrupted her. “Cintra was already conquered at that point, I don’t understand what he was hoping to achieve.”

“I’ve no idea,” she shook her head. “All I know is that he already had enemies at the court at that point. Tawny Owl was searching for me in collaboration with some aristocrats.” She touched the scar on her cheek absent-mindedly. “But since someone is now able to override his orders so blatantly, the situation had to worsen.”

“It would seem that way,” he agreed.

“I knew he didn’t believe in Geralt’s story about my heroic death,” she muttered.

“Not trying to criticise your actions and attitude, but anonymity didn’t really seem to be your priority. Even here, in the middle of the woods, I heard stories of an ashen-haired witcheress,” he smiled. “The emperor was likely told of your adventures even before the first monster you slew drew its last breath.”

She threw him an irritated glance.

“I only wanted my freedom.”

“I understand, naturally. And now, what do you want?”

She opened her mouth to give him an instinctive answer but seemed to have changed her mind.

“Are you reading my mind?” she asked instead, frowning.

He spread his hands apologetically.

“One of my species’ characteristic.”

“Could you…not do that?”

“It’s not something I have a lot of control over,” he replied. “It’s more of an additional sense, like taste or smell. I can temporarily block certain thoughts or a certain person, but I can’t block the flow permanently.”

Ciri considered that for a moment.

“I could try to block you myself…” she said thoughtfully. “Probably. I only succeeded once but that was an instinct as somebody was forcing their way into my mind. I can’t feel you reading my mind so I don’t know… Besides, you’ve got to be much more powerful than anyone I’ve ever dealt with.”

“You’re also far too weak to try anything at the moment,” he interrupted her. “Your thoughts are like the sound of the wind to me, I’m aware of them but I can ensure you, I do not actively listen to them. The thoughts that are directed at me are slightly different, stronger, louder and thus harder to ignore, in the same manner as louder noises would get your attention. Such was your thought about being tired of the Path that I caught earlier. If this causes you any discomfort, which is understandable, by all means, try. But only once you’re stronger. I insist. I do not want to risk you getting a haemorrhage or a migraine.”

She nodded in agreement; her unexpected compliance was most likely caused by the fact that she was trying to get up on her own and, wincing in pain, she had to give up. He was waiting patiently, observing her. She threw him a slightly evil look.

“Ciri, it’s only been four days since you’ve been conscious. It will be another week at least before I let you walk.”

“A week?” she asked incredulously.

“Or two” he added, ignoring her scowl. “Just a moment ago I was afraid you were going to die.”

“I hate being immobilised,” she sighed in annoyance.

“Trust me, I know how you feel all too well.”

He ignored her curious glance and helped her up to give her another herbal mixture.

“Are you putting me to sleep again?” she protested.

“It depends,” he smiled. “Are you going to argue with the doctor?”

“It’s a blackmail,” she laughed softly.

“Not at all. It’s a warning.”

***

“I need to leave you for a short while. Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you before I go?”

“Except for the humiliating lack of independence, I’m right as rain,” she said, her voice dripping with irony. “Go, vampire. I’ll be fine.”

When he returned in the early hours of the evening with a fresh bunch of herbs, some supplies, and pieces of news, he found her immensely bored, but at least still in the same spot she was when he left.

“Nobody in the village has seen or heard of the Nilfgaardian squad for a few days now,” he said, sorting the herbs and preparing them for drying and potion-making. “They must have given up or moved on to other parts of the woods.”

“Maybe they came up with some convincing story for Emhyr,” Ciri sighed. “I just hope they leave me be.”

“Have you ever considered going there of your own free will?”

She jerked her head up, cold fire in her eyes.

“Where? To Nilfgaard? To _him_? Cause nobody’s been sticking any instruments between my legs lately??”

He didn’t respond for a moment, giving her time to regain composure.

“You’re letting your traumas speak, which is understandable, of course…”

“What do you know of my traumas, vampire?” she hissed.

“Of your specific traumas, very little. Of traumas in general, however, quite a lot. Which is why I think…”

“Stop thinking then,” she cut him off.

He obliged and went back to sorting herbs in silence. He felt her gaze on him but ignored it.

“He invaded Cintra. Killed my grandmother, burnt the city to the ground. He sent the Tawny Owl after me, instructed Vilgefortz to hunt me - not to mention his plans for me to wed him and bear his children,” her voice could cut through glass.

“But it was also from him that Geralt and Yennefer found out you were back and were being pursued by the Wild Hunt. It was his sources that helped them establish where to begin their search for you.”

She snorted.

“I really don’t think I owe him anything. It’s him who owes me quite a debt; one he couldn’t dream of repaying, even if he tried.”

“Maybe that’s what he’s doing?” he suggested in a gentle tone. “Trying?”

“Your faith in us humans is touching,” she snapped. “It’s clear you don’t know us as well as you think.”

“On the contrary” he smiled. “The bond between a parent and a child is very strong in your species; our races are quite similar in that regard. Think about it: the emperor abandoned his sick plans after he met you in person. And he’s been trying to find you ever since. Don’t you think it might be worth to hear what he has to say?”

She shook her head impatiently.

“Give me those sleeping herbs, vampire. I’m getting a headache just from listening to you.”

He went back to work without a word, wondering if he found her stubbornness irritating or endearing. Or, perhaps both.

***

“Don’t you miss company on your exile?” Ciri asked the next morning, giving his hut and his possessions a thorough inspection from the confinement of his bed.

“Company?” he repeated. “No. Neither of vampires nor of humans. I do miss friends, however small is their number.”

She smiled.

“That’s what I miss most on the Path,” she said. “Companions, camaraderie, silly jokes around the campfire, sharing the joys and the hardships of the road. I remember travelling with Geralt and the dwarves as a child and even though the war was all around us, these are all good memories. Last year I spent some time with a group of jugglers but after a few weeks we had to part ways. But even with the loneliness, these past three years had been wonderful. For the first time in more than a decade I wasn’t a hunted animal, I could go where and when I pleased. This freedom, being in control of my own life… It’s priceless.”

Her voice trailed off, dreamy. He didn’t reply. She shot him a sideways glance.

“Fine,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “Yes, every now and then I do miss a place I could call home. It really would’ve been nice to have a choice as to what I want you to know about me, vampire.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he protested, smiling.

“I begin to distinguish between different types of your silences,” she said in a mocking tone. “Worse, I begin to understand them. And speaking of dwarves, camp fires and such: do you play gwent?”

“That favourite card game of theirs? No, I do not.”

“Great! I’ll teach you.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“This pause just there was where you were supposed to express your enthusiasm. There’s a deck of cards in my saddle bag. Would you be so kind and bring it?”

“I don’t like games, or gambling” he protested but still obliged. He found her deck and brought it to her.

“You like me bored out of my skull even less, I guarantee you that.”

“Now you are reading my mind?” he chuckled.

She looked at him, her eyes bright with laughter.

“I don’t have to. You have it written all over your face.”

He surrendered.

***

She was screaming in her sleep, shaking wildly, oblivious to the pain she had to be causing herself. He caught glimpses of chaotic images: of death, blizzard, fear – and above all, the sensation of unimaginable cold. He lit the candles, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her gently, trying his best not to cause her more pain.

“Ciri, it’s only a nightmare.” No reaction, just more convulsions. He strengthened his grip on her. “Ciri, wake up!”

Her eyes flew open, she gasped for air and looked around the room in a panic.

“Ciri, it’s fine. You’re here, you’re safe. It was only a dream.”

She focused her gaze on him, relaxed marginally and turned her face to the wall, closing her eyes and pressing her lips together.

“Would you like to tell me about it?” he asked, his hands still on her shoulders. He could see she was crying.

“It was… The White Frost,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “It was killing everything and everyone I loved and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it. Because back then… I failed…”

“You failed?” he repeated in confusion.

She took a deep breath to calm herself down. He got up and brewed her tea. He helped her to sit up and handed her a steaming mug which she accepted gladly. Her hands were cold as ice.

“Avallac’h was coaching me, getting me ready to stop the White Frost,” she began slowly. “He taught me to control my powers so that I could do it when the time came. After we dealt with the Hunt, he opened the portal for me in Tor Gvalch’ca on Skellige. I entered it and then… I don’t remember all of it. What I do remember is freezing cold and a snow storm that obscured everything. And visions, memories. I was walking through the blizzard, blinded by the snow, until I came to yet another tower, even more imposing. Massive, black as the deepest night, glistening in the whiteout; intimidating. I realised I had to find a way to open it - on my own.”

She fell silent and closed her eyes. Regis suddenly understood that he had no idea who the girl sitting in front of him was and what kind of powers she wielded.

“And then…” Ciri continued with visible difficulty. “Then I suddenly remembered what the unicorns in the Aen Elle world told me: that neither Avallac’h nor Eredin were interested in stopping the White Frost; that they were both only ever interested in opening the gates between the worlds in order to conquer other dimensions. I also realised that defeating Eredin made Avallac’h the most powerful Aen Elle alive with nobody left to stand in his way. He was my teacher and he helped and saved me countless times. I trusted him. But standing in front of that tower… It didn’t feel like I was about to stop a catastrophe. And what I was about to do would definitely open a gate between the worlds. That tower… Magic emanated from it, it seemed to me a centre of everything, of all existence. I was frightened of its power, scared to even go near it, to touch it. The thought of opening it, of someone using it...” her voice trailed off.

“What did you do?” he asked quietly, mesmerised.

“I turned back,” she pressed her lips together, looking away from him. “But the uncertainty if I had made the right choice, if I hadn’t condemned us all to a terrible fate, has been haunting me ever since. I know Geralt never trusted Avallac’h. But he taught me everything I know and I… I disobeyed…”

“Ciri,” Regis said in a gentle tone. “I don’t think your gift lies in stopping natural catastrophes. According to the works of all the scholars I have read, these are unavoidable anyway. I obviously cannot know what Avallac’h was planning, but taking into consideration your abilities, I do think that opening a gate between the worlds is more plausible.” He fell silent as a sudden thought struck him. “I wonder if, had you opened it, would you have allowed us, vampires, to return to our world…”

Ciri didn’t respond for a long while.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Swallow,” he smiled and she jerked her head up and looked at him in surprise. “It is but a hypothesis. You assessed the risks and made the best decision you could under the circumstances. If you do not know whom you can trust, always trust yourself.”

Tears glittered in her eyes again. She threw her arms around him, taking him by surprise. He hugged her tight.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

They sat together for a long while, a human and a vampire: mortal foes; his hands on her back, her face hidden in his robe and Regis suddenly understood Geralt, understood why the witcher was ready for anything to find her. When he felt she calmed down a little he held her at arm’s length.

“Try to go back to sleep,” he said with a smile. “It’s barely past midnight.”

She nodded. He changed the bandages, making sure none of her wounds opened during her earlier attempts to wake up from the nightmare. He then sat at her side, watching her and listening to her thoughts growing silent until he was sure that she slept a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

“Regis. I know for a fact you’re more intelligent than me. I refuse to believe you didn’t get the rules.”

“I’m merely allowing you to win.”

“Mhm.”

***

“What’s that smell?” Ciri sniffed the air with curiosity.

“Rabbit stew.”

“Impressive, vampire. The most I’m able for is to put something on a stick and fry it over a fire. And even that often ends in a failure.”

“Because you fall asleep?”

“Quite the opposite,” she laughed. “Because I try and eat whatever’s on that stick half raw.”

“Patience isn’t your strongest suit, is it…”

She snorted.

“If I know anything about the art of discussion, that was a rhetoric question.”

He handed her a bowl full of steaming stew.

“I’m even more surprised that you have spent so many years on the Path then.”

“Inns,” she shrugged, eating slowly and clearly enjoying each bite.

“You didn’t have problems with people’s reactions?” he asked, curious; Geralt’s struggles fresh in his memory.

“I did,” she smiled a nasty smile. “Especially at the beginning. Nobody really believed I could stand a chance against one endriaga or a ghoul. Even after delivering their heads I still had to fight to get paid. But few discussions with a sword in my hand and the attitudes started to change.”

“And the hatred and the prejudice that hurt Geralt so deeply?”

“See, I’ve never undergone the mutations so I’ve never had any major problems… And I can deal with folks who try to humiliate me easy enough," she said, her voice defiant.

He nodded.

“And the weariness…”

“That you read directly in my mind?” she cut in with a grimace. “I admit that winters were tough. And I do have enough of the Path every now and then. But I fought hard for this freedom. I won’t give it up easily.”

“And you have no other ideas for your future?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You’ve a problem with witchers in general, women doing this job or specifically with me?” 

“Ciri, I simply don’t think that being a witcher is all you’re capable of.”

“What do you think I should become, then?” she snapped. “The head of a newly reformed Chapter of Magic? The empress of Nilfgaard?”

He raised his eyebrows in response and Ciri fell silent, eyeing him with suspicion.

“You really think… You think that’s what Emhyr wants?” she asked uneasily.

“I don’t know, Ciri. And making any wild assumptions with so little information would be unwise. All we know is that he’s looking for you - again - after Geralt lied to him about your death. Or rather, attempted to lie.”

“This couldn’t have worked,” she smiled.

“No. But it bought you three years of freedom you so desperately wanted.”

“You seem to disapprove?”

“Not at all. After everything you’ve been through, hunting monsters must have been alluring in its simplicity.”

“It was.”

“As for what the emperor might want… There aren’t that many possibilities after all, although there really isn’t much point in guessing. Mending the strained relations between you, a suitable candidate for you to marry to prolong the var Emreis line…” Ciri snorted but he ignored her and continued. “Or he really is planning to make you his heir. If that was to be the case, however, I cannot imagine how he is planning to deal with introducing Cirilla Fiona, his daughter and heir, at the court, if the same court had met Cirilla Fiona, his wife and the Queen of Cintra, a mere fifteen years earlier.”

“I’ve no idea,” she shook her head. “I don’t even know what happened to her. Rumour had it she died of an illness or in an accident. I don’t remember the details. And I would very much like to believe my dear father didn’t have anything to do with it. That he wasn’t making provisions for my arrival at the said nilfgaardian court, for example.”

He gave her a questioning look.

“Do you truly suspect him of such intentions?”

“Suspect, no,” she shrugged. “But I’ve seen enough not to expect a fair game if the stakes are high.”

“Anyway, to sum up,” he continued after a moment. “As far as you’re concerned none of the options are inherently bad for you and you can reject them all, can you not?”

“None of them are bad?” Fire lit up her green eyes again. “Putting aside for a moment the decision to make me into a mare to breed noble nilfgaardian children, becoming an empress is a great plan? To ascend to the throne of Nilfgaard, the same Nilfgaard that had my family murdered and took everything – my name, my home, my country – away from me?” her voice was rising, cold and unpleasant. “I know our land borders and politics mean very little to you, Regis, but forget it.”

“You can always go there and say it to his face - if that is indeed his plan,” he smiled. “Just think of the satisfaction…”

She looked at him in surprise and then laughed out loud, her anger forgotten in an instant.

“I very much prefer when you appeal to my lower instincts, vampire,” she shook her head and regarded him carefully. “Are you really so deeply convinced I should go there?”

“Ciri, I simply think that if your father is trying that hard to get you to meet him, it would be reasonable to find out why. And as far as your future is concerned, it’s always beneficial to have a clear idea of all the options before you make any decision.”

She sighed.

“A philosopher, damn it.”

“A solitary life aids the thinking.”

“You still haven’t told me why you chose solitude,” she smiled a sly smile.

He shook his head, realising one a sentence too late that he had walked right into a trap.

“It is an incredibly long story.”

“Hang on…” She pretended to calculate something. “How many more days of bed rest did you administer? Two, three? That enough time for you?”

He grimaced. She looked into his eyes, suddenly serious.

“Regis, I know nothing about you,” she said in a surprisingly warm tone. “You saved my life, twice. We’re either just a meal to your kin or, in a slightly better scenario, we’re an aperitif. And yet you’re saving me; us. You're sacrificing yourself for us. For gods’ sake, you carry me to the privy. Why?”

He looked down at his hands, avoiding her gaze.

“I have plenty to make up for to you, humans,” he answered quietly. “But it really is a very long story and it is quite late. Rest now and I promise I will tell you everything you want to know tomorrow. Agreed?”

“Fine,” she smiled. “Tomorrow it is. Goodnight, Regis.”

“Goodnight, Swallow.”

***

“Don’t spend too much time thinking, vampire. It’s only your turn, not a discussion about ethics of medical experiments on dead or unconscious patients. You’re sure you’re passing? A spy! Hah! Told you not to think too long!”

***

Regis wasn’t looking forward to telling Ciri his story at all. Despite making a promise, he was delaying the moment for as long as he could, busying himself with potions and dinner and tea while Ciri sat quietly staring through a small window into the darkness outside, trying her best to hide her impatience and curiosity. Only after he ran out of excuses did he sat with her, handed her a mug of freshly brewed tea and gathered the courage to speak.

“I have committed unspeakable things against you humans in my youth,” he began uncomfortably and Ciri’s pretended lack of interest vanished at once, replaced with a sharp focus. “Teenage vampires can be as stupid and cruel as human ones, but we are also undisciplined and nearly immortal. The concept of rules and consequences don’t exist for us unless we turn against our own. And so we party hard, competing in games involving the lesser species; the more cruel the games, the better.”

He pressed his lips together; he really hated those memories. Ciri listened intently, without a word.

“I wasn’t the only one among my friends who drank too much, but I was the only one unable to control it. I had a chance to quit when I met a certain vampiress, but when she left me, my addiction spiralled out of all control. Drink became the only thing that mattered; the circumstances, parties or impressing friends with shows of brutality against humans were no longer important. I became careless. In the end, I got caught by a group of peasants, cut into pieces and buried. It took me five decades to regenerate. Half a century is more than enough for some memories of things done under the influence to resurface. When you regenerate, you cannot move; there’s just you and your mind, with nothing to distract you. You have an eternity for thinking and watching the past deeds flashing in front of your eyes. Some of them hunt me to this day.”

He fell silent when she took him by the hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. He looked at her surprised and saw in her eyes not the judgement he feared, but the warmth and compassion; the same warmth and compassion that he sensed in her thoughts that were wrapped around him like a cocoon, soothing his pain.

“After the regeneration, I couldn’t go back to my old life. I wandered alone, without a goal or a purpose, until I met an elderly vampire, a humanist, who took me under his wing – if you pardon the pun. He helped me to understand my guilt and gave me advice and tools to work on it. When he moved on, I adopted his teachings and his way of life and I quit drinking altogether. I could no longer live among my own but I was also afraid to spend too much time near you humans. Only after another few decades had passed did I dare to make use of my medical knowledge to help you and redeem myself, if only by a fraction. I spent winters working in Dillingen and summers on collecting herbs and distilling potions. But even then, I abstained from forming any close ties or relationships with anyone – with only a few exceptions - until Geralt with the rest of the group showed up.”

“Dandelion told me about your meeting,” she smiled.

“I do not doubt that. He also covered these events in a great detail in his memoirs. Fortunately, I am not aware of any ballads that would feature my humble person,” he forced a smile.

“Geralt often said that he should have beaten him unconscious and left in some ditch years ago,” she chuckled.

“This indeed sounds just like him; this and the fact that he never intended to carry this through.”

Her smile turned warm and affectionate, the way it always did whenever the witcher was mentioned.

“It was a profound shock that Geralt, a witcher, trusted me,” he continued after a moment of a companionable silence. “A witcher, who had spent his entire life hunting and killing creatures such as me and who was nevertheless able to see something more in me than a deadly threat.” He took a deep breath. “That was the first time I truly believed in a prospect of an absolution that my vampire mentor tried to make me see. If people, even if there's but a handful of them, can know of my nature and yet trust me, if they can know my history and forgive me for it…” he fell silent for a moment. “Then maybe one day I shall be able to forgive myself.”

She squeezed his hand again.

“Regis, none of us is without blame,” she grimaced. “I myself have far too much blood on my hands: out of stupidity, hatred, thirst for revenge… Very little of this blood was spilt in self-defence or even for a noble cause. None of us then has any right to judge you for your past. And what you do now… You’re the most righteous creature I’ve ever met.” She looked him in the eyes. “But you do realise that looking for our forgiveness as a way to heal is a road to nowhere?”

“I do, Swallow. But one must start somewhere. This is the reason I joined Geralt; a promise of acceptance, of friendship even, was too tempting to let it pass, even if I first had to reveal my nature to everyone. Which was a revelation in itself: a soldier, an uneducated girl, and a poet; all of them able to overcome their primal fears and natural prejudices and accept me as a companion. Trust me, Ciri, this was one of the most beautiful moments in my life, even with the war and all the tragedies that fell upon us.”

“I believe you,” she smiled. “When I was on the run and joined the Rats, a group of bandits and murderers, I found the same: acceptance, camaraderie, fellowship.”

They both fell silent. After a moment Ciri raised her head.

“Regis?”

“Yes?”

“Will you tell me the rest?”

He grimaced.

“The rest… The rest is Vilgefortz. Then: nothingness filled with icy terror and Detlaff, a friend, a vampire, who found me and spared his own blood to save me. The regeneration was slow and painful; for the first year I couldn’t even walk unassisted - which is why I can fully sympathise with your impatience. Detlaff nurtured me back to health and all throughout this difficult time, I was his mentor. He was…a specific vampire: unable to integrate with humans, with no understanding of the social conduct. One day he disappeared and it took me no small effort before I finally found him in Beauclair. As it turned out, he was behind a series of murders, manipulated by a woman - a human - he loved. When her scheming was uncovered, he descended into fury. He sent vampires all shapes and sizes to destroy Beauclair and kill its inhabitants. We got him to meet us, myself and Geralt; I tried to reason with him, to mediate, but to no avail. When things didn’t go according to his will, he attacked Geralt without warning and I faced an impossible choice.” Unable to face Ciri, he turned away and closed his eyes.

She inhaled sharply.

“I’m so very sorry,” she whispered. “Regis, I’m terribly sorry…”

He shook his head.

“I know I didn’t really have a choice. Things had already gone too far: Detlaff was beyond the reach of reason, consumed by primal fury and unstoppable by any means other than physical attack. He was regenerating in an instant and would have killed Geralt, so I did what I had to… But I will never forgive myself that I killed him.”

“It’s horrible,” she said through the tears.

“A higher vampire can only ever be killed by another of our kind,” he replied, his throat tight with pain and regret. “For turning against my own I was declared anathema. As it stands, any vampire that I encounter can attack me, serving our version of justice.”

“Don’t they realise that living with what you’ve done is a much worse punishment for you?”

“I wish this was the case. Unfortunately, our codex is quite simplistic: death for death. Hence my hiding, hence the solitude. I planned to travel to Nilfgaard, but I did not have enough strength for such a journey. And with each passing day, it was getting more difficult to leave.” He smiled at her. “But right now I’m very glad that I stayed.”

She smiled back. Regis looked into the candlelight, letting silence surround them once more. But this time, it did not bother him; it did not carry a weight of all the secrets, unspoken words and hidden pain. Now, it was filled with warmth, understanding, compassion. It crossed his mind that he was getting too used to sharing his time and thoughts with another – again - but what was life if not one long lesson in the art of losing?

***

“It seems gambling is the only thing humans are better at.”

“I simply find such a choice of entertainment to be beneath me.”

“Of course you do, vampire. Of course. If it’s any consolation, I’ve never won with any dwarf.”

“No. It is not.”

“So I thought.”

***

Next morning as they sat sorting the herbs together, he decided to ask the question that had been bothering him for the last few days.

“How exactly does your talent work?”

Ciri stopped working and thought about his question for a few moments.

“Someone, a lifetime ago, called me the Lady of Space and Time.” She grimaced. “Slightly exaggerated, but it pretty much covers it. I can travel between places, and between times. Although the latter tends to get complicated, I got into serious trouble a few times after I miscalculated. That’s why I don’t do it unless it’s really necessary. It’s much simpler with space: I can just think of a place or a person, focus, and I’m there.”

“Did I understand correctly that you can travel between the worlds as well?” He felt a sudden tension and had to make an effort to keep his voice steady.

“Yes. I visited - or rather escaped through - quite a few over the last few years. I even have a few favourite places I go back to every now and then,” she smiled without taking her eyes off him. “Does it bother you that much, having to live in our world?”

“It does,” he admitted, surprised by her insight. “I used to think this was simply the way things were for us, monsters imprisoned in your realm after the Conjunction of Spheres…”

“Monsters!” she snapped. “Really! You’re far more human than most of the so-called humans I’ve met. I don’t even know if the term ‘human’ is still appropriate and if you shouldn’t consider it an insult!”

He nodded with a smile.

“Thank you, witcheress. If you allow me to continue, however, I used to think that this constant, throbbing discomfort, the longing for the world where we don’t need to conceal our identity is just our fate. But with your abilities…”

She was looking at him, her brows furrowed in thought.

“I could try to find your world… If you want me to...” she said slowly.

“Don’t even think about it,” he interrupted her at once, carefully ignoring the wave of hope and excitement that suddenly rose in his chest. “You haven’t even recovered yet. And it’s definitely not safe for you, even when you’re in top form.”

She rolled her eyes.

“And here was me hoping for something exciting to happen at last.”

He shook his head, smiling.

“Maybe one day, Ciri, when we are both fully recovered. Maybe one day I will ask you for this.”

She nodded, observing him closely. He ignored her gaze and settled back into work, trying to silence his frantic thoughts and get his trembling hands under control.

***

After another week he finally allowed her to get out of bed. Her body was strong and he could no longer detect any infection or any lingering traces of poison – and her impatience reached its peak. The first few attempts were spectacular failures, with him gathering furiously hissing Ciri from the floor. But after another few days she regained enough strength to start taking short walks around his hut and after a week she even managed to mount her mare and take her for a short ride.

And more and more often she talked about leaving.

***

He opened a long-forgotten bottle of wine he found in the depths of the little kitchen and filled two cups. She raised hers in a toast.

“To returning to the living and to acts of goodness, rare in this rotten world.”

He smiled and took a sip.

“Thank you again, Regis,” her voice turned serious. “For everything. I don’t know how I will ever repay you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, witcheress.”

“Pleasure,” she chuckled. “Not a word _I_ would use to describe days spent with me insanely bored...”

“Surely it could not have been my delightful company that you found so boring,” he smirked. “And that’s why the sleeping potions were the most useful.”

It was good to hear her laugh. Moments of peace were rare in those troubled times; that made them even more precious and worthy of celebrating.

“Have you decided what you will do next?” he asked.

“Maybe I’ll visit Geralt in Toussaint so that I have enough time to leave before snow blocks the passages. I haven’t seen him in an awfully long time.”

“It would be good to see him again,” he smiled.

“You still can’t go there?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Two years mean nothing for vampires. Unfortunately, this direction will be extremally risky for me for another long while.”

She nodded and continued.

“After Toussaint, I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll come up with something in the meantime. Or maybe I’ll just go back to hunting monsters,” she sighed at the sight of his face. “A choice you clearly still don’t approve of.”

“Ciri, we spent enough time arguing about my opinion on this for you to know it inside out,” he shrugged with a smile. “Please, do not treat my musings on the subject as a way to force you into anything. In fact, I am more than certain you are well capable of dealing with anything that stands in your way, no matter what you choose.”

She raised her glass again in a silent toast and looked into the candlelight, lost in thought.

***

Little hands are reaching out towards a tall, dark-haired man, who smiles and takes her in his arms. He sings something to her in a language she doesn’t understand. He carries her out onto the terrace; the girl laughs and hides her face in his neck as the sun, high in the sky, is blinding her.

“See those ships on the sea? Those mountains?” the man’s voice is deep and warm. “One day, all of this, and that what is behind the mountains too, will be yours.”

“But…” she turns her head to look at him, squinting. “Yours and mommy’s too?”

He nods but his face changes slightly.

“Of course, they will be ours too. Of course, Ciri.”

She hugs him and he gently strokes her hair.

“Va faill, luned,” he says in a quiet voice.

Behind them, the stairs are covered in blood.

***

The vampire stood outside the hut with his arms crossed when she was saddling up her horse. She fixed the cinch, checked the saddle and the bags and only then did she turn to him.

“I’m going to Nilfgaard, Regis.”

He looked at her in surprise.

“When did you change your mind?”

She pressed her lips in a thin line for a second.

“I had a dream last night. A dream about my father… About Duny. I want to see if there’s anything of him still left in the emperor,” she narrowed her eyes. “And I want to find out who’s behind the assassination attempt.”

He smiled.

“I admit: I did not see this coming.”

She closed the distance between them and threw her arms around him. He held her in a tight embrace.

“Farewell, vampire. Thank you again. I hope I will be given a chance to repay you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Goodbye, Swallow. I will miss you terribly. Good luck. And remember…”

“If you’re unsure whom to trust, trust yourself,” she cut in with a smile.

She felt him smiling in response. He hugged her one last time and released the grip a little to look at her.

“If you ever need anything, you know where to find me.”

She nodded, mounted up and rode off. Only once did she look back. He still stood outside his hut, looking after her. He raised his hand. She waved at him, turned her horse around and galloped away, allowing the wind to dry off her tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so bitterly disappointed these two have never properly met - I was waiting for Ciri to arrive in Beauclair at the end of B&W and have a proper reunion with Geralt - and Regis. And then the game writers sent Regis away. Well, I couldn't let that happen...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How _could_ you?” she asked in a quiet voice. She managed to get her anger under control – her anger, but not her pain, the pain of an old and forgotten wound, the pain she hadn’t been aware she was carrying within her all those years. “How could you even consider something like _that_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this has taken me forever... Here's hoping the next chapter won't take _as_ long. As ever, it's not me, it's Ciri.
> 
> Endless praise and thanks to [Sparrow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sparrows_fall/pseuds/a_sparrows_fall) for beta, as well as all her insight and feedback.

> “ _EMHYR VAR EMREIS_ , alias _Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd_ , in Common Speech: The White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes; born in 1220; from 1257 to 1278 emperor of Nilfgaard, ruler of Mettina, Geso, Etola and Gemerra, suzerain of Nazair, Ebbing, Maecht, Toussaint, and Vicovaro.
> 
> Some chronicles include among his titles one of the King of Cintra (through marriage), but even if the emperor did use this title – and no documents had been discovered to support this claim – its validity was challenged by the Cintrian Azure Uprising ( _vide: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon)._
> 
> Son of the emperor _Fergus var Emreis_ , he was cursed and exiled at the age of thirteen during the imperial coup. He returned to Nilfgaard in year 1257; after reclaiming the throne he ordered the usurper and all his followers to be executed, and the usurper’s name to be wiped out from all imperial chronicles and documents. 
> 
> Considered a brilliant strategist and an outstanding military leader; as a result of his expansive politics, the Nilfgaardian Empire’s territory nearly doubled in size under his rule. For this reason and despite his legendary ruthlessness, the Nilfgaardian chronicles refer to the decades of his reign as the Golden Ages.
> 
> He died in a coup in the year 1278; his death marks the end of the var Emreis lineage.”
> 
>  
> 
> **“Rulers of the North and South”**
> 
> Group publication under the auspices of the Faculty of Middle Ages, University of Lan Exeter 

 

***

A flash of light, a sudden pulse of blood in her ears.

“Ciri!”

Yennefer caught her at the very last moment, saving her from a fall when her legs simply collapsed under her weight.

“Geralt, bring water! And some wine.”

The sorceress sat her down on a... chaise longue…? She could hear the nightingales singing; a warm summer night filled with a faint scent of roses and lavender. It all seemed so distant and _wrong_.

“Ciri.” Geralt sat down next to her and without another word put his arms around her. She hid in his embrace, inhaling the familiar scent of leather, dust and _him_ , a shield protecting her from the world, and for a brief moment everything felt fine; tragedies stroke elsewhere, affecting other people.

“Ciri, what happened? You have blood all over you,” Yennefer knelt in front of her, conjured up a small magical light and cleaned Ciri’s hands with a wet a cloth. She looked back at the sorceress, struggling to focus.

“It’s not mine,” she replied slowly and straightened up. “The Emperor… Emhyr is dead.”

“What? Tell us everything!” Yennefer squeezed her arm.

“He was assassinated in his chambers… When I found him it was already too late. He told me to run… And died in my arms…”

The sorceress sat on the other side of her and put her arm around her. Ciri started to cry.

“I… But… He was responsible for so much evil and death… I shouldn’t be crying…”

“He was still your father,” Geralt pointed out gently. “And he wasn’t an inherently evil man. He was even capable of noble deeds – when he felt like it.”

“Do you have any theories as to who might be behind it?” Yennefer kept stroking her hair and Ciri felt the grief slowly subsiding, replaced by practicality. 

“Nothing solid,” she wiped away the tears. “Emhyr did mention the Merchants' Guild and named some generals and aristocrats, but the list was neither short nor complete. I was also hoping to find out who organised the assassination attempt on me, but I didn’t have enough time.”

“What assassination attempt?” Geralt cut in sharply.

“I took a contract for a cockatrice in Maribor,” she told him. “Emhyr must have foreseen this as he sent a small squad with orders to find me and to escort me all the way to Nilfgaard. But somewhere along the way, someone else paid them to get rid of me.”

“Tell us everything,” Yennefer demanded.

“There isn’t that much to tell,” Ciri shrugged. “Before I managed to kill it, the cockatrice wounded me quite badly. The Nilgaardians were waiting for me outside the beast’s lair. I was too weak to jump and so after insulting my ancestors seven generations back they shot me with poisoned bolts when I was trying to escape. Regis found me and nursed me back to health,” she smiled.

Geralt looked at her in surprise.

“Regis? And what is he doing in the North? Wasn’t he going to hide in Nilfgaard?”

“He was, but he stayed to recover a little after the events in Toussaint.”

The witcher couldn’t quite hide the painful grimace. He turned away to avoid her gaze.

“He’s in a good form,” she said softly, putting her hand on his shoulder.

“I still can’t forgive myself for what happened, for the sacrifice he had to make because of me,” Geralt said bitterly. “That it was because of me he now has to live in hiding.”

She leaned against him. Geralt kept staring at the horizon.

“It was him who convinced me to go to Nilfgaard,” she broke the silence, changing the subject to a more cheerful one. “He dedicated two or three lectures to the subjects of second chances, family ties, forgiveness, and the like.”

“That does sound like him,” Geralt laughed quietly. “I miss him. Even with the constant talking.”

“I shall pass the message,” she smiled.

“Ciri. What are you planning?” Yennefer frowned, her voice full of suspicion.

Ciri sat up straight, looked from her to Geralt and took a deep breath. She suddenly realised her mind was already made up even though she had no idea how or when that happened. She didn’t know if it was because of Emhyr and the time spent in Nilfgaard or rather because of Regis’ monologues about aspirations and fate. All she knew was that the path she had to follow suddenly appeared in front of her; a plan that, even though still extremely vague and without some crucial details, was fully formed, complete. Obvious, really.

Also, crazy. But she had beaten worse odds – and she had to at least _try_.

“I’m going to Cintra. I’m going home.”

 

***

Focus. Flash of light, blood pulsing in her ears. A familiar scent of lindens surrounding a small cemetery, well hidden in the forest.

“Regis?” she called out.

There was no response so she sat down under the tall tree that marked the entrance to the graveyard, keeping her swords within reach - just in case.

She didn’t have to wait long. As always, the scent betrayed him first.

“Ciri? So good to see you – and not suffering from any medical emergency this time.”

“Good to see you too, vampire,” she stood up to hug him.

Regis held her at an arm’s length and examined her.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon. How may I be of service this time?”

“By sharing your advice and your philosophical lectures about the nature of the world,” she smirked. “Or is that too much to ask?”

“Never,” he chuckled softly. “As you well know. But more precisely?”

“Emhyr is dead; assassinated in his chamber. I found him too late to do anything.” With a sigh, she sat back down. He sat beside her watching her closely.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Swallow. How long did you spend there?”

“Not long enough,” she grimaced. “A little over a week. I don’t know who’s behind his murder. I don’t know who wanted me dead. But at least we straightened up a few things.”

He smiled.

“Yes, yes. You were right,” she rolled her eyes and fell silent for a moment. “He asked me for forgiveness,” she added quietly.

“What did you do?” he asked, his obsidian black eyes never leaving hers.

“What was I supposed to do?” Ciri shook her head impatiently. The memories were still raw and she didn’t feel like poking around them much. “He was dying in my arms. What options did I have but to forgive?” She looked away, staring up at the moon. “Or at least to say I do. I think it’ll be some time still before I can truly forgive him,” she blinked away the treacherous tears threatening to spill. “I just wish I had known him. I wish he hadn’t remained a stranger. A symbol.”

“I’m sure he regretted that too,” Regis offered quietly. “That must have been a part of the reason he was looking for you. But you didn’t answer my question. What is it that you need from me?”

She turned back to him and looked him in the eyes.

“I’m going back to Cintra. I want to try to regain my home, my name, my heritage. With the empire in a temporary turmoil and Redania busy elsewhere, it’s now or never. I want to ask you to come with me.”

He was silent for a long while. She tried in vain to read his face.

“A truly bold plan, and one I admit I did not expect. You do have a talent for surprising, Swallow,” he replied quietly. “But why me?”

“Your experience is priceless, even if you always have to make everyone acutely aware of that. And the truth is, I will need it. I will need someone I can trust,” she gave him a small smile. “And I trust both you and your ability to talk me out of doing something really reckless. Gods know I will need _that_.”

“You may be overestimating my abilities,” he shook his head with a smile which faded away far too quickly. Ciri held her breath and waited for his answer.

“You know well I shouldn’t,” he said slowly after another moment of silence. “What I should do is avoid drawing any attention to myself, or others for that matter. Parading around the court is the exact opposite of that.”

“The court isn’t where I need you, vampire. Besides, nobody should be looking for you in an overpopulated city,” she reached out and took his hand. “I don’t know yet how to protect you…”

“ _Protect_?” he cut in with a frown. “Me? Ciri, while I deeply appreciate the sentiment, what I’m concerned about is the safety of you and the entire capital. The very last thing I want is another massacre; the memories from Beauclair are still very fresh. I would hate to put others at risk. You, most of all.”

Ciri found herself lost for arguments. She suddenly remembered his words about missing his friends and wondered briefly whom Regis considered among that group, except for Geralt and maybe Dandelion. She felt his gaze on her.

“Swallow,” he added, his tone reproachful. “Feel yourself included in that group, small as it may be. Which is, incidentally, what makes the decision if to protect you by staying away or by coming along even more difficult.”

She nodded, feeling a blush creeping up her cheeks. Regis sat for a long moment staring into the night. Then he sighed and turned to her with a mixture of resignation and amusement.

“You won’t take no for an answer, will you?”

“The ability to read minds has its uses,” she laughed, relieved. “You only have yourself to blame, you know. If it hadn’t been for your lectures about aspirations and destiny I would have been drinking some fabulous wine with Geralt right about now instead of intruding on your privacy.”

“Are you trying to guilt me into agreeing to this?” he raised his eyebrows. “And not being too subtle about it, if I may add?”

“Me? Not too subtle? Never.” 

“Indeed,” he shook his head. “All right. I will have to watch out for mirrors, dogs, and mages, mostly in that order. I am at your service, your highness.”

“Excellent,” she started to get up when he stopped her.

“It’s a middle of the night, Ciri. I believe we have some time to spare. Tell me what happened in Nilfgaard.”

 

***

Two guardsmen shoved her into the waiting chamber, surprisingly empty of petitioners. The only person in the room was an elderly man with greyish hair, sitting at the desk in the far corner. As the soldiers pushed her towards him, he put down the documents he was going through and observed them in silence. 

“We captured her outside the main gate, m’lord,” the taller guard on her left reported when they stopped in front of the desk. “She demands to see the emperor. Claims it’s important.”

She was staring at the man as he examined her. He wasn’t wearing any marks of position, at least none that she could identify; just a simple, elegant doublet - and a perfectly indifferent expression.

“His Imperial Majesty isn’t seeing anyone today,” he said in a tone that matched his face. “His Imperial Majesty is also not in the habit of wasting his time on common prisoners, such as herself.”

With that, he went back to his documents, ignoring both her and the guardsmen completely.

“I would strongly suggest you check that with him directly,” she shot back in Nilfgaardian.

He looked at her again, frowning, and she thought she saw a glimpse of recognition. He sat motionlessly for a moment, clearly trying to decide which course of action was more likely to save him from imperial wrath. He eventually seemed to have solved his dilemma as he abruptly got up from behind the desk.

“You all shall follow.”

The soldiers pushed her to walk in front of them. The man, whom she guessed to be Emhyr’s chamberlain, led their small group across a spacious, beautifully designed garden with four fountains murmuring quietly, then through a maze of corridors to Emhyr’s study where six soldiers in full armour bearing the insignia of the Impera Brigade kept guard. There he stopped, knocked on the door in a complicated sequence and went in.

“I said: no one, Mererid.” Emhyr’s cold voice rang loud and clear. The guards beside her suddenly looked like they very much wished to be miles away.

“I beg your forgiveness Your Majesty, but this is an unusual case…”

She was pushed inside, with her guardians nearly crawling in behind her.

Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, the Emperor of Nilfgaard and a half of the known world, looked at her and stiffened a little.

“You are in the presence–” Mererid began, but Emhyr cut him off at once.

“All three of you. Leave.”

The men disappeared immediately, bowing on their way out. She was left alone with the emperor, the two of them measuring each other carefully from what felt like the opposite sides of a pit filled with snakes.

The hint of silver on his temples and a few lines around his eyes and mouth were the only indication of the time that had passed since that fateful day, a lifetime ago in Stygga castle, where she met him for the first – and the last – time.

“Cirilla,” he said, his voice level and carefully without emotion. “I was informed you died.”

She smiled.

“You sound like you believed Geralt’s story... Your Imperial Majesty.”

“I did not. Where is the squad that was sent to find you?”

“After they tried to kill me? I have absolutely no idea.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Kill you? They were under strict orders to ensure your safety on the way to the capital.”

“They clearly got other orders; namely to get rid of me and make it look like an accident.”

He looked at her for a moment in silence.

“Someone will pay for this,” he said eventually, his voice calm and quiet; a statement of a fact rather than a threat, which somehow made his words even more menacing. He got up from behind the desk and came to face her. “What made you come to Nilfgaard then? Witcheress?”

“A friend of Geralt’s who saved my life,” she replied. “He convinced me I should listen to what you have to say.”

“You did not intend to do so?”

She glared at him, making her gaze and tone as cold as possible.

“No, I did not. Too many times others were trying to use me - me, or only certain parts of my body. Including yourself and others acting on your orders.”

He pressed his lips into a thin line, the first reaction she managed to get out of him.

“You may recall that I abandoned those plans over a decade ago.”

“A decade is a long time,” she countered. “You may well have changed your mind.”

“You do not trust me.”

“Why should I? You have given me no reason to for as long as I can remember.”

He looked at her with an unreadable expression until he seemingly came to some decision.

“Mererid!”

The chamberlain, clearly waiting just outside the door, entered the room immediately.

“Have the rooms prepared for our guest, the ones along the back corridor - which is to be used by the lady exclusively until instructed otherwise. Is that clear?”

“Your Majesty,” Mererid bowed.

Emhyr looked back at her.

“Will you join me for dinner?”

 

***

A large, copper tub was full of scented foam, the water just a few degrees shy of scalding. Ciri stretched, rested her head against the edge and sighed with pleasure. She could easily get used to some of this luxury, especially after her last winter on the Path, which was, to put it mildly, unpleasant. Closing her eyes, she decided it was totally worth coming all the way to Nilfgaard, if for nothing else than this bath.

When the water cooled down, she reluctantly decided to get herself washed and ready before Mererid or others thought it necessary to come in to investigate. Invisible servants prepared warm towels and a selection of beauty ointments that were for the most part unknown to her; she strongly suspected they would meet with Yennefer’s approval.

Ciri dried herself, let her hair loose and checked the cockatrice scars in the mirror. They were mostly healed by now but still glaringly red; the newest addition to her ever-growing collection. She wrapped herself in the towel and went over to the dressing table to investigate the various jars and bottles taking up nearly half of it. She smelled a few suspiciously, and decided on a small blue jar; she wasn’t _entirely_ sure of its purpose, but the ointment was creamy in substance, its jasmine scent both sweet and subtle. She could work with that.

In the bedchamber, three dresses were displayed for her to choose from. Whoever was given the task to pick them had an excellent taste and - she realised as she tried them on - had been given her exact measurements, as all three fit her like a glove. The emperor must have been more up to date with her life than she had realised. Adding that to the mental list of things to throw in his face should an opportunity arose, she settled for a deep navy-blue dress, slightly off-shoulder, the simplest of the three but still elegant.

Standing there in the chamber, tying her still damp hair in a messy bun that bore no resemblance whatsoever to any elegant up-do, she was hit by an uneasy realisation that it took her no time at all to slip comfortably into the role of one served by others. She took a deep breath and pushed the thought aside for later consideration. For the time being she was only a guest; she would start worrying about her attitude when more pressing issues were resolved. Assuming she was still alive then.

She checked herself in the mirror one more time and left the room to find the chamberlain waiting for her just outside the door. He bowed upon seeing her.

“The lady will follow me.”

“So, you don’t think I’m a prisoner anymore?” she asked, trying to provoke a reaction out of him.

“Emperor’s orders concerning the lady were clear,” he answered, not taking the bait. “There are many things at the imperial court that are not quite what they seem.”

“What do _I_ seem to you then?”

“Appearances can mislead. It is not my place to wonder why the lady looks so like the late empress. I am here to serve His Majesty.”

She wanted to ask him about the false Cirilla but before she could decide on a question he stopped in front of one of the side doors. He opened them for her and invited her in. Emhyr was already inside, waiting in front of the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. To her surprise, he turned to them and greeted her with a ceremonial nod. Mererid bowed but she ignored the protocol and stared at the emperor – her father – in a silent challenge. She could almost feel the mortification and despair radiating from the chamberlain beside her.

“That will be all for now, Mererid.”

The chamberlain left, throwing her an exasperated look as he went, and Ciri looked around with interest. The chamber wasn’t large, but very tastefully decorated, clearly meant as a private dining lounge. Most of the room was taken up by a large table made of some exotic dark wood, with two chairs only. The table was already set and the combination of aromas that hit her made her suddenly very aware that she hadn’t eaten since dawn. Apart from that, the only other furniture was two large armchairs next to the fireplace with a small table between them, a pile of books covering most of it. Countless candles and some magical source of light filled the room with a warm glow, creating the atmosphere of comfort and understated elegance.

“When my astrologist informed me that you had returned, I had your portrait commissioned to aid in the search for you,” Emhyr broke the silence. Startled, she spun around to look at him. “At the time I believed the painter had aimed for flattery as a means to win himself imperial favours. I was mistaken.”

Surprised, she gave him a curt nod, feeling a treacherous blush creeping up her cheeks and cursing it wordlessly. He motioned for her to take a seat. She obeyed, too distracted by the promise of a feast in front of her to try and make a point. This could wait till after the meal.

As they ate in silence, she repeatedly felt his gaze on her, but she was determined not to react, and focused instead on the food; she did her best to keep some manners and not devour everything within her reach. It wasn’t easy, though, as the variety of dishes served were truly worthy of an imperial table. She recognised quill, soft and tender, pheasant with raisins in a thyme and white wine sauce, and the most exquisite venison pate she had ever tasted. Some other types of food she wasn’t even trying to identify; she simply enjoyed the combinations of flavours and spices, trying her damn best to ignore the silence between them.

She promised herself she wouldn’t be the one to start a conversation. Under normal circumstances, she would have dismissed that as childish, but a dinner with the emperor of Nilfgaard, the most powerful man alive who also happened to be her father whom she hadn’t seen in years – that was as far from normal as one could get.

Once the meal was finished, Emhyr moved to sit in front of the fire, and after a brief hesitation, she joined him. He filled both their cups with a generous serving of wine that must have cost an equivalent of a small town or two, and sat back and stared into the fire, a cup in his hand. Expensive or not, Ciri took a large gulp, bracing herself.

“After the Wild Hunt was defeated, you could have come to Vizima. Yet you did not. Why?” he spoke after a lengthy moment, without looking at her.

She held back a response, trying to decide how much to tell him – or rather to assess how much she was able to say without outright blaming him, which would undoubtedly bring the conversation to a rather quick and violent end.

“Ever since the slaughter of Cintra I have been constantly pursued,” she answered carefully. “Cahir, Rience, Vilgefortz. Bonhart, Tawny Owl. The sorceresses. Aen Elle. The Wild Hunt. More than a decade of being on a run, always, from everyone. Over a decade of listening to other people’s plans for me, nearly always centered around bearing somebody’s child.” She felt his gaze on her again but she kept her eyes fixed on a spot directly ahead. “When we beat the Hunt, I thought that was my chance to disappear, to escape, this time from all the grand but ultimately empty words I had been fed my whole life: destiny, fate and the like.”

“It is not possible,” he said. “One cannot escape fate.”

“I didn’t take you to be superstitious,” she countered, turning to meet his eyes for the first time. “No, it’s not possible. But I managed to avoid it for a few years. Do you really not understand why I did that?”

He didn’t answer.

“When did you find out I was alive?”

“I never believed the witcher’s story.”

She smiled.

“He wasn’t very convincing?”

“He did not sound like a man who had lost everything,” he replied simply.

This time she found herself lost for words.

“The tales of your adventures reached me a mere three weeks later, confirming that my conclusion was correct,” he inclined his head a little. “I must say I did find the witcher’s actions disappointing. I thought he would keep his word.”

“It was not his decision.”

“I concluded _that_ as well.”

She jerked her head up and looked at him, unsure if it was really irony she read in his words. The stories she heard of him rarely mentioned his sense of humour – never, in fact. She drank some more wine and decided to address some issues right away. She put her cup down and met his gaze.

“Why were you looking for me again? You just mentioned you abandoned your plans for me. What changed?”

“The plans.” Emhyr examined her and she felt uneasiness creeping in. She had underestimated the amount of wine she needed to get through this. “I have a certain proposition for you. You will hear all the details tomorrow–”

“I’d rather hear them now,” she interrupted him. Judging by his expression, that wasn’t something that happened to him often, or at all.

“And I would rather not have you reject it without giving it a proper thought,” he retorted, his voice a few degrees colder. “Which is why we shall discuss it tomorrow, once you have a chance to rest after your journey. And until you decide if to accept it or not, your visit must be kept strictly a secret.”

He took a small device from between the books on the table and handed it to her. She instinctively reached out and took it, examining it with suspicion. 

“You are not to walk around alone, at least not for the time being. Press the top of this device with your finger and it shall summon Mererid. He has the appropriate orders. You shall have an unlimited access to all the rooms along this corridor, including the library. These are my private chambers that only a few know about and you must not be seen outside them.” He noticed her scowl at his words and frowned, his voice growing colder. “I will have no further discussion on the matter. You are not a prisoner, but you would be in danger had my adversaries found out about your presence here. I will not have you risk your life because of your insolence.”

She didn’t react, focused instead on trying to control her breathing. Emhyr gave her another lengthy look, then without another word rose from the armchair, bowed and left, leaving her silently fuming.

 

***

“What was that proposal of his?”

“And they say I have no patience.”

Regis merely smiled. Ciri sighed.

“The most ridiculous one from your list. Nilfgaardian throne.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“What did you say to that?”

“And what do you think?”

 

***

“You must be kidding. Your Imperial Majesty.”

“I am not known for my sense of humour.”

“Explain then, as the idea is far too absurd for me to take it seriously.”

“Absurd?” he repeated. “You are my daughter and thus my heir. I fail to see the absurdity you speak of.”

She shook her head in disbelief.

“Most of the evil that has happened in my life can be directly traced back to Nilfgaard.”

‘And you,’ she wanted to add, but judging by his expression, he read her words the way they were meant.

“And now you suggest I ascend to its throne like none of it happened?”

“What I offer you is a tool,” Emhyr said quietly. “It is entirely up to you how you choose to use it.”

“What if I use it for revenge?” she glared at him.

“That is your right,” he said, unfazed.

Ciri fell silent, fully aware he saw right through her bluff. She decided to change tactics.

“Things are that bad, eh?” she asked in a mockingly sweet voice.

That seemed to finally have worked; Emhyr’s mask of careful indifference slipped a little.

“Your insolence is _endearing_.”

“I take after my parents,” she shrugged.

He watched her for a moment, his lips compressed into a thin line. But when he spoke, his voice was yet again cool and collected.

“Ever since I came to power, Nilfgaard has been constantly at war. Initially, it was the guilds that pushed for the invasion of the North. Now, they are also pushing for change. For peace. They claim to speak on behalf of the people.”

“And since when do you care about the will of the people?”

“Since a part of my army sides with my adversaries,” he replied coldly. “Since the Merchants' Guild is growing in power and is yet again actively and aggressively plotting against me. Since seemingly trustworthy commanders blatantly ignore my orders and seek to have my daughter murdered.”

It was her turn to sit in silence for a moment.

“And you think announcing me as your heir will change anything?” she asked warily.

“No. My abdication will. The people will get the change they seek, and the support for the Guild will wane.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked quietly.

“The days of my rule are numbered,” he replied matter-of-factly. “But they shall end on my terms. The price I paid for the throne was far too great. I will not have another usurper ruling the empire.”

“Do not answer right away,” he added quietly, meeting her gaze. “Give it some thought. This is a truly powerful tool that can be used to reclaim what was taken from you – and to achieve anything you want.”

She didn’t respond, unsuccessfully scanning his face for any signs of – anything, really - while also exerting herself not to give him a short and instinctive answer as to what, in her opinion, he could do with his tool and his throne. Especially since it was nobody else but him who took everything from her. Him, who burned down her home and with it, her entire life.

“Fine,” she answered when her brain got her emotions under some control. “I’ll think about it.”

 

***

“You really did consider accepting his offer?” Regis cut in again.

“I did,” Ciri shrugged. “He wasn’t exaggerating when he said it was a powerful tool. When I calmed down a little, I realised that if I agreed to this, I would no longer need to be concerned about certain ambitious sorceresses and their plans for me. However, certain ambitious elves and _their_ plans is another matter altogether… But such a position would at least allow me some freedom to shape my future, the future of my country - even the world. All of this was rather appealing and within my reach,” she grimaced. “Naturally, his proposal came with a side of murky political games, dangerous liaisons and shady power plays among the Nilfgaardian aristocracy and army generals that I would have had no idea about.”

“Naturally,” he agreed. “What conclusion did you come to?”

“None,” she shook her head. “I was tempted briefly, but I never reached a state of fully making up my mind on this. And before I even began to properly analyze his offer and its implications, there were certain issues that needed to be raised.”

 

***

The next morning Mererid brought her to the emperor’s study through a maze of secret passages she was trying very hard to memorize, with little success so far. It was a different room than the one she was in the day before. This one was bright and sparsely furnished, with only a large desk, a few chairs and shelves and shelves of books that crawled along all the walls. The morning light filtered through the glass-stained window that allowed the light but not the view, both in or out of the room.

Mererid bowed formally and left. He seemed to have given up on trying to get her to follow the proper etiquette. She pitied the man a little, but not enough to obey.

“Do you have any thoughts on my proposal?” Emhyr asked her, motioning for her to sit.

“Do you really think I can make such a decision over the course of one evening?” she immediately felt irritation building up in her and took a deep breath to steady herself and keep her head clear. “A decision that would change everything, but whose true cause and result are still unknown to me?”

“Do you have any doubts on the matter?”

“I have only doubts,” she spat out. “Firstly, I don’t believe you really plan to abdicate. Secondly, your paternal generosity in sharing power with me which you so suddenly developed seems very suspicious, and I can’t help but wonder what your true goal might be. Thirdly–”

“Suddenly?” he interrupted her, frowning. “It has been years since I began searching for you.”

“Decades actually,” she exploded, furious; her earlier irritation and attempts to remain calm a distant memory. “How touching are your words – as long as nobody knows what your initial plans for me were!”

She stopped abruptly, trying to compose herself. Emhyr didn’t respond. The colourful light swirled in a joyful dance on the marble floor, a stark contrast to the words being exchanged.

“How _could_ you?” she asked in a quiet voice. She managed to get her anger under control – her anger, but not her pain, the pain of an old and forgotten wound, the pain she hadn’t been aware she was carrying within her all those years. “How could you even _consider_ something like _that_?”

His face twisted in a grimace she couldn’t identify.

“When Vilgefortz shared with me the full version of the Ithlinnespeath and its implications – the end of all worlds, the cataclysm that could only be prevented by a child of your – our – blood… It seemed at the time the only possible way to stop it, the only solution certain to succeed.”

He paused for a moment as if gathering thoughts. “This and the idea of absolute power clouded my judgement. I was a child, tortured, exiled and humiliated, yearning for revenge. I was easily persuaded – too easily, in retrospect. At the time, I believed it worth any price. But then…” he paused again and Ciri abruptly realised he had probably never spoken these words out loud before.

“When I finally met you, when Yennefer called you her daughter and asked me not to hurt you… I understood then that I would never have been able to carry my plan through, that no end goal could possibly justify such actions. I never did love your mother, but this…”

Ciri was silent, her throat tight with anger and the tears she was struggling to keep at bay. She suspected this was as close to an apology as he was ever going to give.

It was by no means enough: the wounds ran too deep; the distrust was too strong. But it was a start.

She was taking deep breaths to calm herself down and only spoke once she was certain her voice wouldn’t falter.

“What happened to mom?”

“I was planning to take you both to Nilfgaard,” he answered, looking past her at the window. “Duny of Erlenwald was supposed to die, and with him, the truth of your parentage. But Pavetta suspected something was amiss. She sent you to the shore just before we set sail.”

His words conjured up images in her mind, vague memories, half-forgotten, that made little sense to her before, images that gained cold clarity in the light of their conversation.

“She told me to run to Grandma, and not to ask questions,” she said quietly. “She said it was a hide-and-seek game. A surprise for you.”

“It was indeed a surprise,” he replied flatly. “I was furious when I found out you were not on board and your mother had one of her attacks. During our fight an accident happened.” His face twisted in a strange expression. “She fell overboard and Vilgefortz chose that moment to activate the teleport, preventing me from going to her rescue.”

Ciri jumped out of the chair, no longer able to sit still.

“You’re a monster,” she hissed.

“I was.” He didn’t avoid her eyes this time. “I destroyed anyone who stood in my way, and paved their gravestones into my ballroom floor. I believed myself capable of anything to achieve the end goal. This continued for years - until I met an ashen-haired witcher girl and her parents.” He paused for a briefest of moments before continuing in a quieter, almost gentle voice. “Only then did I understand that by doing so I inadvertently allowed some things to perish - things that, once broken, were impossible to mend.”

Memories flashed in her mind once more: an endless staircase leading down, bone-aching tiredness and overwhelming despair at the realisation that she was losing Geralt and Yennefer. And him – a stranger, holding her in a tight embrace in the middle of a courtyard covered with blood. The blood she spilled.

She felt she was about to fall apart, and there was no way in hell she would ever let him see her like that. She turned around and went to the stained-glass window.

“Leave,” she said quietly.

To her astonishment, he obeyed.

 

***

Regis’ silence was just a little too pointed to her taste. She shot him a sideways glance.

“Do go on.”

“I didn’t say a thing,” he protested.

“No? And I was convinced I heard ‘I told you so’ and something about traumas…”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Sure.”

He flashed her a toothy smile, his fangs in full view, but he immediately turned serious. When he spoke, his voice was yet again thoughtful.

“I’m truly glad you faced this, Ciri.”

“I hadn’t realised just how deep the cuts go,” she replied, staring into space. “How much it still hurts, even though I never thought much about it. There had been so much evil in my life back then that I never paid much attention to these particular memories, this particular betrayal.”

“How do you feel about it now?”

“I don’t know,” she said frankly. “Opening of decades-old wounds isn’t particularly nice.”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “But it's often necessary for the healing process.”

“Doctor’s orders?” she smiled weakly.

“The only thing missing is some herbal mixture…”

“No thank you,” she chuckled. “I’ll tell you everything, no need to resort to extreme measures.”

***

At first, she intended to refuse the dinner invitation, to make her point loud and clear. But after a bottle of some fabulous wine that mysteriously found its way to her chamber, she replayed the entire conversation in her head, and decided that now was not the time for theatrical gestures.

On the contrary, now was the time to talk, and there were likely many other conversations as painful as the last one that lay ahead. She still expected some actual verbal apology from Emhyr, even though she knew that with both his character and his position, it was likely that such an idea hadn't even occurred to him.

She eventually made her way to the dining room, mustering all the calm she possibly could, wary and ready for another confrontation. His measuring eyes were on her the moment she stepped through the door.

“How do you feel?” he asked when she sat down opposite him.

“Your presence is no longer unbearable, so: better,” she replied sourly.

He nodded.

“Do you have any further questions?” he asked.

“I do, but for the moment I also have enough of your answers.”

She couldn’t quite manage to stop bitterness from seeping into her voice.

He didn’t comment, so yet again they ate in silence, and yet again she avoided his gaze.

When they finished, he broke the silence, surprising her once more.

“Ciri,” he said in a quiet tone; she jerked her head up and stared at him. This was not at all what she expected. “Will you tell me what happened to you?”

She looked at him for a long time. She still couldn’t read anything in his face, but she could feel that his attitude towards her changed since their morning meeting. She eventually decided, reluctantly, that it was her turn to drop her guard a little.

She took a deep breath and told him her story: of war, of love, of betrayal. Of Geralt and Kaer Morhen and of Yennefer and Ellander, of Thanned and her escape through the Tor Lara and the suffering of the Korath desert. Her voice faltered a little when she got to her time with the Rats and Bonhart. She briefly told him about her time in Tir na Lia, her escape and her attempts to get her wild talent under control. All throughout her story he listened to her intently, his hawk-like eyes never leaving her face. She briefly felt sorry for anyone having to deal with this intimidating intensity on a daily basis.

Only when she got to the events in the Stygga castle did he interrupt her with a quiet curse.

“I am deeply disappointed you killed Vilgefortz before my soldiers arrived,” he said in a cold voice. “I would very much have liked to deal with this matter personally.”

“We would have been more than happy to cede this privilege to you,” she replied sourly. “A lot of Geralt’s friends lost their lives there. You’d have to have been swift and thorough, though, as the entire Lodge of Sorceresses was also deeply invested in his fate.”

He nodded for her to continue, so she told him of her wandering between the worlds, of rescuing Geralt from the Hunt and the chase that followed, of meeting Avallac’h again and his resolve to teach her to control her abilities. She spoke about all the times they nearly got caught, about the Isle of Mist and Geralt finding her yet once more; about the Hunt’s attack on Kaer Morhen, Vesemir’s death and the explosion of her raw talent. He winced a little at that, but she ignored it and kept talking.

Her voice faltered yet again when she mentioned Avallac’h’s laboratory and the notes on the genetic experiments he performed. He frowned, seemingly wanting to interrupt her, but she didn’t let him. Finally, she told him of the ultimate trial in Tor Gvalch’ca and the decision she made there.

When she finished, she drank an entire cup of wine to steady herself. Emhyr was looking at her deep in thought.

“You still do not know what Avallac’h’s intentions were,” he said.

“No,” she shook her head. “All the facts and information I have contradict one another.”

He nodded.

“Where can he be found now?”

“I have no idea.”

“And will he be trying to find you again?” he pressed his lips in a thin line for a moment. “To continue his experiment on Hen Ichaer?”

She snorted.

“He’s Aen Saevherne. A sage. I highly doubt anyone but himself knows what to expect from him.”

He fell silent for a few heartbeats.

“I do believe the decision you made was the right one,” he spoke eventually and she stared at him, annoyed at his insight. “If you were to open the gates between the worlds, you might have saved ours, although it remains deeply unclear to me how that was supposed to be achieved. But by doing so, you would also have become a tool of Avallac’h, which would be both a potential danger to us all and something you would detest deeply.”

She looked away, angry at herself for letting him see too much. She thought she had hidden her doubts better. She hated the fact that he decided she needed some words of comfort, and even more the fact that – damn him - he was _right_.

“When one is faced with such decisions, the only reasonable choice is to act on one’s instinct,” he added, seemingly unaware of her reaction.

She continued to stare into the flames in silence while his words, strangely similar to Regis’, echoed in her mind, over and over, evoking in her a whole range of unwanted emotions, relief the strongest of them. Relief that took her by surprise, relief against which each fiber in her body screamed in protest.

She needed nobody’s support for her choices. She needed nobody’s acceptance. _Nobody’s._ His, least of all.

 

***

“Will you look at that, I have something in common with the late Emperor of Nilfgaard,” Regis mused.

“And that is?” she narrowed her eyes.

“Faith in you, Swallow,” he smiled.

She didn’t reply. She didn’t know what to say.

 

***

She was getting better at finding her way through the maze of hidden passages of the imperial palace, and less and less did she need Mererid to lead her by the hand. The next morning, she only got lost twice on her way to Emhyr’s study where she found him going through a pile of what looked like military reports.

“Problems?” she asked.

“Not at present,” he put the papers down. “Dijkstra is being kept busy by his own internal affairs. He is also trying to strengthen his grip on Temeria, which, for the time being, remains shaky.”

“You sound disappointed at having no war to fight,” she commented with a small smile. His brow furrowed. “You had nothing to do with whatever Redania’s internal problems are, naturally. Or Temeria’s, for that matter.”

“Naturally,” he confirmed. His expression might as well have been carved in stone.

A sudden thought hit her.

“Does Dijkstra know about me?”

“It is difficult to know for certain,” he answered slowly. “The entire world knows that Cirilla Fiona, the empress of Nilfgaard, died seven years ago.” His voice changed slightly but before she had a chance to ask any questions, he continued. “But it would be unwise, not to mention dangerous, to assume he does not know. There are not many things that escape this man’s attention. The answer might also be a very simple one: the witcher might have told him about my plans, assuming he guessed what they involved.”

“A word of advice: never underestimate Geralt,” she smiled.

“I assure you that I do not. If the witcher knew of my plans for you, he did have ample opportunity to share them with Dijkstra when he helped him to organise Radovid’s assassination.”

She looked at him in a shock.

“Geralt? Directly involved in a regicide?”

“It appears the two of you have some things to talk about still,” he said in a dry voice.

She shook her head in disbelief, making a mental note to ask Geralt about his new definition of neutrality.

“I wonder,” she said after a moment, “I wonder if Dijkstra believed in those plans of yours, assuming he knows about them.”

Emhyr frowned.

“What makes those plans so difficult to believe in?” 

“Please,” she snorted. “You’ve worked hard your entire life for an image of a ruthless tyrant. Ruthless tyrants don’t suffer from a change of a heart, and aren’t willing to abdicate for their long-lost daughters.”

“Then that shall make me the first.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said sharply. “I don’t know what game you’re playing or what you’re hoping to achieve.”

Emhyr looked at her in silence for a moment.

“Peace,” he said at last. She gave him an incredulous look which seemed to inspire him to elaborate.

“Two decades of war, spilled blood and hate. Two decades of watchful sleep I may not wake from. It’s enough.”

She stared at him with suspicion, unconvinced, trying to ignore the nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, they had something in common.

“So, when did you decide to give up power and put me on the throne instead of marrying me?” her voice did not falter at the words; she was getting better at it. She only wasn’t sure if that should make her proud - or worried.

“When I was informed that you returned.”

“And before that you had enough foresight to get rid of the empress?” she blurted out.

“ _Enough_.” His fist slammed against the desk, making her jump. A grimace of pain flashed across his face, so brief she wasn't even sure if it was really there, instantly replaced by cold rage. Shocked into silence and dumbfounded, she belatedly realised she misinterpreted the situation altogether.

“You seem to think you have an immunity,” he said in a quiet, icy tone. “You seem to assume I need you. You seem to believe I am indebted to you and that this gives you the right to do as you please. You are overestimating your importance, dear daughter. And the price to pay for such mistakes is high.”

She was silent for a few heartbeats. His threats didn’t bother her much – he _did_ need her, and owed her, after all – but she felt deeply embarrassed. Trying to rile him up was one thing, hurting him on purpose was another - not that he didn’t deserveit.

Ignoring her brain’s protests, she decided to act on instinct; the deep irony of following his advice on the matter did not escape her. She reached out and gently touched his hand, still clenched into a fist.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wanted to provoke you, which was low and unnecessary. Forgive me.”

He was silent for a long time, his eyes not leaving her face even for a moment.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the mask of an emperor once again slipped a little.

“I loved her,” Emhyr said and Ciri failed to stifle a gasp. “I loved that quiet, ashen-haired reason of state. De Rideaux was trying to convince me to get rid of her, but after the events in the Stygga castle, I had had enough of the ends supposedly justifying the means. She died seven years ago after a short illness. None of my mages or doctors were able to tell me what caused it, despite the consequences.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, choosing to ignore his last few words.

He nodded. She straightened up, breaking their physical contact, her eyes still fixed on his.

“What I don’t understand, though, is how you’re planning to address the fact that the entire world had met Cirilla Fiona as your wife, not your daughter.”

“This is what the intelligence services are paid to do."

“And how do you imagine they should do that?”

“By telling the truth,” he replied. “Or rather, a version of it.”

She barked out a bitter laugh.

“Intelligence services? Truth? I want to see that. And their reaction to your news.”

“There will be no such reaction,” he said calmly. “They are all professionals. And extremely well paid at that.”

“Are you confident enough to bet on this?” she tilted her head.

“I am,” he said with a shadow of a smile, and she watched in amazement how that barely visible expression transformed his face, made him seem younger, gentle even, his aura of a ruthless emperor briefly gone. Upon seeing that smile, more of those half-forgotten images came back to her, memories from another world, a carefree and a happy one. The pain that shot through her was sudden, sharp and unexpected, taking her breath away.

 

***

She broke off and for a while they just sat there, surrounded by the sounds of the night.

“That was the first time ever when I saw in him the man he could have been,” she said, barely audible. “The man I could call a father. The man I lost.”

“That was his choice, Ciri,” Regis replied softly. “His decision.”

“I know, vampire. But still – it hurts.”

“I know it does.”

“That was also when we developed some connection,” she added after a moment, the memories lifting her mood a little.

Regis smiled.

“You won over the emperor of Nilfgaard. I expected nothing less from you.”

“No,” she shook her head with a smirk. “I won him over a little later.”

His eyebrows rose in amusement.

“Do continue.”

 

***

Their daily routine developed quickly: she would meet Emhyr in the morning in his study for an hour or two, and later in the evening they would dine together. This arrangement left her with a lot of time with absolutely nothing to do, especially since the place she was confined to didn’t offer much in terms of entertainment. No chamber was even large enough for her to train – not that she ever got her swords back after they were confiscated from her when she showed up at the gate. Desperate to find any way at all to kill the time, she decided to investigate the library Emhyr mentioned during their first dinner together.

To her delight, she quickly realised it was much better equipped than its size would have suggested and her boredom was quickly replaced with fascination. Upon discovering the resources she had at her disposal, she began spending most of her days there going through thick tomes, old report sheets nearly crumbling in her hands and freshly printed volumes on a satisfyingly wide array of topics, from history and strategy to ethics, philosophy and linguistics. She even found some poetry, including a few compilations of Dandelion’s ballads translated into Nilfgaardian. She wondered briefly if the poems found their way to the imperial library as pleasure reading, or rather if they were source material for a character study of certain individuals. Knowing Emhyr, she strongly suspected the latter, and decided she wouldn’t mention that to Geralt.

On her third day, she discovered an entire section of works on the northern kingdoms, with their detailed history, royal lineage and their interrelations, which she meticulously studied, just in case. In case of what exactly, she never fully specified even within the space of her own mind, but she kept reading nonetheless.

She was settled comfortably in one of two large armchairs, engrossed in one of the chronicles, when Emhyr unexpectedly joined her one afternoon.

“No audiences?” she asked, closing the heavy tome and putting it aside.

“Nothing that cannot wait until tomorrow,” he replied, sitting down opposite her with a pile of documents. He glanced at the book she put down. “Chronicles of the Northern Wars?”

“It’s fascinating to read the victor’s version,” she shrugged.

“If this is the latest volume, it can hardly be called a victory,” he said in a dry tone she learned to take for irony– in most cases, anyway. “I do believe, though, that the victorious side can be relied upon for a more unbiased analysis of certain aspects of the conflict.”

“Such as?”

“The decisions and deeds of your rulers.”

She found no answer to that.

“Any conclusions or thoughts on what you have read?” he asked.

“Just one: Dijkstra is one hell of a piece of scum.”

His laughter, sudden, unguarded and surprisingly warm, left her dumbfounded. She simply stared at him, utterly at a loss as to how to react to something so unexpected.

“An excellent analysis, as brief as it is accurate,” he said, still visibly amused. “Yes, indeed. He is also viciously intelligent, his actions always very precise and extremely effective. He seems to have a very coherent and even more ambitious vision for himself, his country and, it would seem, the North as a whole. A vision he has been tirelessly working towards for years. All these factors combined make him a dangerous opponent.”

“Not for you, I presume?”

“No, not for me,” he agreed in a matter-of-fact tone reserved for the ruler of the most powerful country on the continent. “But potentially for you.”

“I would give a lot to see what your intelligence has on him,” she said.

“Any particular reason?” he raised his eyebrows.

“Just curiosity. There’s nothing here,” she gestured to the book, “about the period between that failed assassination attempt orchestrated by Philippa Eilhart and him emerging as a ruler of Redania.”

“You deduced that. Very well.”

“Please,” she snorted. “Aep Deamhur really isn’t as subtle as he would have his readers believe. The hints were really obvious.”

“Only for some. You _have_ met her.”

“An experience I won’t be looking to repeat anytime soon, I assure you,” she grimaced, remembering her last conversation with the sorceress back in Novigrad. “Do your sources have any more information?”

“Our intelligence services may not be good enough to satisfy your curiosity,” he said sourly.

“Stop,” she smiled. “Such modesty is unbecoming an emperor.”

 

***

The vampire looked at her frowning.

“You were _lying_ to him about your intentions?”

“I was merely gathering as much information as possible,” she shrugged. “Like I said, I never fully made up my mind, at least not while I was still there. And yes, I did hope to gain access to their archives to prepare myself for the future, whatever that future might have been. I met Emhyr’s head of intelligence the next day but I didn’t have a chance to talk him into cooperating.”

“Who won the bet?”

“Not me, obviously.”

 

***

Vattier de Rideaux was on his way to the emperor’s study, greeting the aristocrats, always present in the vicinity of the imperial quarters, looking for potential favours, gossip or schemes to join or to report on, whichever they deemed more profitable at any given time. He didn’t pay much attention to them – he knew all there was to know about them anyway. His thoughts were occupied with Emhyr’s message he received a few hours earlier. He couldn’t quite decipher it: the borders were reasonably quiet, save for the usual mildly irritating incidents in Cintra, Dijkstra was being kept in check, no new reports from Temeria or elsewhere came that he was aware of…

He nodded at the guardsmen and knocked at the door.

“Enter.”

He went in, closing the heavy mahogany door behind him, and froze. As always, Emhyr was seated behind his enormous desk that separated him from the petitioners, but this time he wasn’t alone. Leaning comfortably, nonchalantly even, against the desk was a young, ashen-haired woman with an ugly scar on her cheek. De Rideaux recognised her immediately; she hadn’t looked much different than in the portraits the imperial painter made those four years ago, under Xarthisius’ instructions.

The Queen of Cintra in Nilfgaard. Most interesting.

“Welcome to Nilfgaard, my lady. I didn’t think I would ever see you again,” he said, bowing down to her.

She frowned a little and threw a quick glance at the emperor. Emhyr smiled.

“De Rideaux, I understand you have questions. Questions I am certain you spared no time or effort trying to unravel over the years; questions I never answered, until now. Stygga castle was not a time nor a place for such introductions, but let me present to you Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon of house Emreis, my daughter and the heir to the throne of the Nilfgaardian empire.”

It was at the very beginning of his career when the spy had learned that silence is the best reaction to shocking revelations, allowing one time to reassess the situation and choose the way out. He was silent then, thinking frantically. He did come up with a few theories over the years on the reasons behind Emhyr’s obsession with that girl, but this… This had not occurred to him. So _that_ was how Emhyr knew that the Cirilla presented at the court all those years ago was an impostor. But… Was he _really_ planning to marry the real one…?

“You win,” the ashen-haired heiress to the throne said unexpectedly.

“I told you they are professionals,” Emhyr replied and de Rideaux realised he was being a subject of a private joke.

“Your Majesty?” he asked, keeping his voice carefully level.

“Cirilla was curious of your reaction,” Emhyr said.

Vattier looked at her, meeting the cool, measuring and disturbingly familiar look of her green eyes.

“I am at your service, my lady,” he bowed down to her again, a little deeper this time.

“Excellent,” Emhyr cut in. “As you will be given a task you will no doubt find interesting.”

He waited. The emperor rose from the chair and walked over to the wall where a portrait of an ashen-haired girl in a dress with green sleeves hanged. There he stopped, his hands clasped behind his back. Cirilla was watching her father in silence.

“Your task, Vattier, is twofold,” Emhyr said, looking at the painting of his wife. “The first part is straightforward: there was an assassination attempt on Cirilla six weeks ago in Maribor. I need you to find out who was behind it, and if it was simply an attempt to sabotage my plans without an understanding what they involved, or if they are aware of Cirilla’s identity.”

“The second part,” Emhyr continued after a moment of silence, without turning around. “Is to convince the court and the rest of the world that I knew well that the girl presented as Cirilla all those years back was not the one I was searching for. That the impostor girl, unexpectedly to me, had won my heart and so I chose to marry her, at the same time using that marriage to silence Cintra.”

“Your Majesty…” de Rideaux said in confusion. “Forgive me, but isn’t that…”

“The truth?” Emhyr turned around, a small smile on his lips. “Indeed. I want you to tell the truth. Do you still remember how it is done?”

 

***

As she was making her way to her chamber, Ciri heard a sudden, strange noise that made the hair on her neck stand out. She only had a vague idea which part of the maze Emhyr’s sleeping quarters were in, but she was almost certain that was where the commotion she heard happened. She ran towards the source of the noise, trying few doors on the way until one let go when she slammed into them with her shoulder – and unsurprisingly so as the first thing she saw inside the chamber were bodies of four guards on the floor. She froze, frantically scanning the room, until she noticed him.

Emhyr was lying on the floor, his body twisted at a strange, scary angle. His eyes were open, fixed on her, intense.

“Ciri… Run…”

Cold fear gripped her as she collapsed on the floor next to him.

“What happened?!”

As gently as she could she turned him onto his back and moved his hands aside, revealing the wound, and cursed. It looked awfully professional. Serious. Hopeless.

“There is… Nothing that… You can do…” he managed, each word a result of his iron will. “You are not… Safe here. You must run.”

“I’ll get help,” she wanted to get up but he stopped her.

“No. Listen. The assassin… He knew what… He was doing.”

His bloodied hands found hers and squeezed them lightly.

“I am glad… I could… See you again,” he coughed. In growing horror, she noticed blood in the corner of his mouth. “If you can… Forgive me.”

Ciri was surprised to find she was crying. The emperor of Nilfgaard, the ruthless murderer who hunted her for years, was - dying. She freed up one hand and gently touched his cheek.

“I forgive you… Father.”

“Father…” he repeated, barely audible. “I did not think… I would ever… Hear it again…” Another coughing fit hit him, stronger this time. More blood. “Run… Me luned…”

His hand faltered, his head lulled to the side. The most powerful man in the world was no more, the White Flame faded away. Ciri sobbed uncontrollably, holding his still body in her arms. The last link to her past, to her life, was gone. And now, of all times, now that they had begun to carve their way back to each other through the hurt and the cruelty of the past…

The knock at the door brought her back to reality. She jumped to her feet, frantically looking around for anything that would serve as a weapon. She lunged for the nearest discarded sword, her grip clumsy, her hands shaking.

“Your Majesty…?” the door opened by a fraction and to her relief, she recognised the voice of the head of intelligence.

“Come in,” she managed through tears.

De Rideaux entered the room, closing the door behind him. He looked at her, then at Emhyr’s body.

“What… Who?” his voice trembled with the same shock she felt.

“I don’t know,” her voice faltered. “I didn’t see anyone. He was dying when I found him.”

The spy carefully walked over to the body and examined it. Ciri realised she was still clutching the sword. She loosened the grip on its handle, letting it slip from her numb fingers. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.

“Did he say anything? Did he recognise the assassin?” de Rideaux asked.

“No, nothing like that.” she shook her head. “He only told me to run…”

Her voice caught in her throat again. She felt his hand on her shoulder and she opened her eyes to look at him.

“You need to get out of here, my lady, and fast,” he said quietly. “Whoever’s behind it won’t let you live if they’re aware of your presence in the palace. I don’t know how deep the treason goes.”

She nodded.

“My swords,” she muttered. “I need to get them back.”

“Do you know where they’re kept?”

“No. They were taken from me when I was captured outside the main gate.”

“Wait for me in the library.”

 

***

“I found your swords, my lady.”

She turned to face him, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Why are you helping me?” she asked, taking her swords from him and examining them carefully in a few practiced, swift movements. “Am I not the prime suspect?”

He thought about her question for a moment.

“Firstly, nothing I know about you suggests a person prone to patricide,” he told her slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Secondly, the unit sent to find you returned to the capital earlier this evening. I got their report where they claim you died while carrying out a witcher contract. Thirdly, the emperor was planning to announce you his heir, and if the throne was what you were after, without him you don’t stand a chance. But most importantly…”

He broke off for a moment, trying to capture the fleeting impression he got during their previous meeting. “I’ve seen you together. The emperor held you in high regard – and I always trusted his judgement. I can’t give you the throne that’s rightly yours, but I can give you your freedom.”

“The throne,” she shook her head. “I never really wanted it. And now, when it cost Emhyr his life…” her voice trailed off.

He nodded.

“Let us go.”

He led her to the inner court and through more hidden passages to the garden outside the palace walls. She turned to look at the building for the last time.

“What are you planning to do next?” he asked quietly. She looked at him, those big, emerald eyes of hers filled with confusion, sadness, and anger. If he had harboured any suspicions about her role in Emhyr’s murder, he would have abandoned them there and then.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I came here looking for answers but what I got are even more questions. Farewell, master de Rideaux. And thank you.”

“Good luck,” he said.

Cirilla inclined her head a little and disappeared in a flash of light, the image of gardens breaking suddenly into million pieces and instantly reassembling as if nothing at all had happened. The spy decided not to question anything – and to get blindly drunk as soon as he put enough miles between himself and the capital.

 

***

The birds sang loudly, heralding a new dawn. Ciri leaned against the tree, staring at the waning stars.

“I’m glad I went there,” she said softly. “Thank you for convincing me.”

“Ciri,” Regis protested gently. “You cannot be convinced. At most, you can be inspired.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“I don’t like what you’re implying.”

“Let’s call it independence and strength of character.”

“Vampire,” she sighed in exasperation. “I’m not sure if I prefer your honesty or your sarcasm.”

“Careful what you wish for,” he chuckled. “So, what is your plan?”

“First of all, I need to get some understanding of the situation from up close,” she said slowly. “How bad it is, what are the moods, if there is anyone who would be on my side… Who would believe me. In the official version of the events, I have been dead for over seven years.”

“It may be difficult,” he warned her.

“I’m aware of that. Which is why I need to go there and see everything for myself.” She got up and put the swords on her back, tightening the buckles. “It’ll be dawn soon. Time to go.”

Regis was silent for a moment, thinking.

“I’ll join you in two days’ time, on the night of the full moon,” he said. “Is there any quiet place where we can meet?”

“I don’t know the city at all,” she grimaced. “I haven’t been there for nearly twenty years and it was almost entirely destroyed in the fire during the Slaughter. But an hour’s ride south there are ruins of a small elvish cemetery that you should find appealing.”

“You underestimate the range of my tastes and my interests,” he said dryly.

“I’ll see you there in two days.” she flashed him a smile.

“Until then, Your Highness,” he retorted, giving her an awfully proper full ceremonial bow.

“I will have the last word, one day,” she snorted, amused.

“One day, maybe,” he agreed with a mocking smile and vanished in an instant.

She shook her head in disbelief at his truly theatrical disappearance, which not only did not give her a chance to respond, but also left her with no choice but to set off herself. She took a deep breath and turned south. After all these years, the time had come to go home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She’s of both Emhyr’s and Calanthe’s blood – a rather worrying mix, if you ask me. Our favourite witcher thinks of her as his daughter, and it just so happens that a great many of those, who underestimated her in the past, died, and often under her sword. I’m not planning to make that mistake. And if I’m right and the Lion Cub really is planning to come back… Then she’s coming for Cintra.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much tears and sweat and headache and heartache went into this chapter. It's already longer (and better) than the Polish original, thanks mostly to the two legends - [Kael](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale) and [Sparrow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sparrows_fall) \- this wouldn't be half as good, and would very likely be abandoned, if it wasn't for you two. :)
> 
>  
> 
> And so, dear readers, if you were ever wondering what other options Ciri might have, wonder no more.

> “Initially, none of us could really believe she returned. Then, we couldn’t quite bring ourselves to believe her daring plan had any chances of succeeding. It took her no time at all to prove us all wrong, to prove to the North, and to Nilfgaard both that she should not be underestimated.
> 
> These notes are meant as a testimony; written to recreate the events of that memorable summer, the events we inadvertently put into motion, and those we were only the stunned witnesses of; events that saw - against all odds - the golden lions fly over the independent Cintra once more.”
> 
> Alvar Lacroix, “Azure Uprising: a memoir”

  


***

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Ciri made a sweeping gesture that took in the two bedrooms and a spacious, cosy room with a large fireplace on one wall and a wooden table and chairs on the other. 

The place was located in a narrow alley in the middle of the harbour district, which, unfortunately for Regis, meant a variety of scents of dubious origin, scents his enhanced senses allowed him to enjoy in full.

The rooms seemed clean and in a reasonable shape though, and the separate entrance allowed for some degree of privacy and anonymity, which was absolutely crucial in Ciri’s situation. He would simply have to quit analyzing the age and state of the boats in the harbour - and their crew. 

“A pleasant enough place,” he nodded. “The interior reminds me of one of the crypts I used to live in.”

“I’ll make sure to pass that comment to the inn-keeper,” she chuckled and sat down behind a table with a sigh. 

He sat beside her.

“Did you manage to find out anything about the current situation yet?” he asked. 

Ciri looked up at him, her eyes tired.

“Not much, but some: Nilfgaard keeps a medium-sized garrison in the capital,” she told him. “The Cintrian army is small, but at least it still exists. I heard that every now and then some rebellions are breaking out, but they are small, uncoordinated, and brutally quelled.”

She fell silent for a moment, only to continue with a visible effort.

“Yesterday morning two people were beaten to death in the harbour for protesting against the Nilfgaard’s injustice. During their protests, they called Cintra an occupied state. That apparently qualifies as an act of treason.”

“I’m so sorry, Swallow,” he said quietly.

“I was _there_ , Regis,” she whispered, her voice raw. “I saw it happening. And I couldn’t do a thing without causing even more dire consequences for everyone,” she avoided his gaze and looked at the window instead. “I failed them all.”

He put a hand on her shoulder.

“You couldn’t have done anything for them before.”

“I could have met Emhyr earlier; listened to him, accepted that damn throne,” she shook her head, still not meeting his eyes. 

“You did what you deemed best at the time,” he told her gently. “And you’re here now.”

“For what it’s worth,” she pressed her lips tight together.

“It’s worth a great deal,” Regis countered. “I must say I never understood your territorial behaviours, and the cruelty that comes with them – but at least all that violence should work in your favour.”

“It should.” She rubbed her face, straightened up and took a deep breath, shaking off her frustration and guilt and trying to focus on the task at hand. “But I still need to gain an access to the army. I’m nowhere closer to that after the two days spent on investigating the moods in Cintra,” she grimaced. “Or at least that’s what I call it. It sounds better than eavesdropping on people around the city taverns, while pretending to enjoy whatever they’re serving. If you’re ever looking for recommendations, just ask. I’m something of a specialist by now. Tomorrow’s location is an inn near the city archive.”

He smiled but the subject he had to bring up sobered him up straight away.

“Ciri,” he started in a hesitant tone. “I’m ready to offer whatever help you might need but… If possible, I’d rather avoid being directly involved in the actual fighting.”

She studied him for a moment in silence.

“Blood?” she asked.

“That,” this time he avoided her gaze. “And a simple, old-fashioned cowardice.”

“Regis,” Ciri said, exasperated. “The standards you’re measuring yourself against continue to baffle me. Your actions in Stygga castle… Do you call them cowardice too?”

“No,” he replied with a grimace that he tried very hard to turn into a smile. Unsuccessfully, judging by Ciri’s expression. “They were a reaction to drinking though; a relapse, if you may. One I would like to avoid at all cost. As well as shifting shape.”

“Your sacrifice to save Yennefer’s life was a relapse too, I’m sure,” she shook her head.

“My underestimation of the threat that Vilgefortz posed was,” he pointed out quietly.

She examined him for another moment and nodded.

“I still disagree with your self-judgement, but I understand, of course. And I very much hope the situation won’t force me to resort to any desperate measures. I may need your…finer talents though.”

This time the smile came to him much easier; he even made an attempt at a familiar irony to lift the mood.

“All of my, as you call them, finer talents are at your full disposal, Your Majesty.”

She chuckled, her intuition and empathy he came to rely on finely attuned.

“Vampire. Seriously.”

***

Alvar had spent a considerable amount of time studying the reports from the empire’s northern territories that he came across after a few days of rummaging through the archives. He found something really interesting in one of them and he couldn’t wait to share his discovery with the rest. This was the best lead they had found since those reports from Novigrad on the Order of the Eternal Fire’s clashes with a witcher and an ashen-haired sorceress that Damian got his hands on over two years ago. 

Barely able to contain all the emotions, he decided to pop into his favourite tavern to celebrate his findings with a drink. He assessed he had about an hour till Amelie would be back from visiting her sister. He should have made it.

“The Heron” was busy enough, with the usual mix of the locals, some travelers, and a few individuals not fitting into either category. Alvar recognized most of them and nodded at a few people on the way to the counter. It was much less crowded there, which allowed for some privacy he very much appreciated; he was dying to share his news with _someone_. 

“Luvi, the usual please.”

The inn-keeper, whose full name was Louvingaard - a name he hated only slightly less than brawls in his establishment and sailors, trying to drink on credit, turned around, beaming.

“Alvar, my friend. I didn’t expect you during the week. What’s the occasion?”

“I found something very promising in the Nilfgaardian archive,” Alvar grinned. 

Luvi put the full tankard in front of him and sighed.

“I should have guessed. This obsession of yours will get you in trouble one day.”

Alvar took a large sip, ignoring the warning. After all those years he was well used to it.

“I found a report on a group of bandits plundering the area of Geso in northern Nilfgaard,” he said, brimming with excitement. “An ashen-haired girl joined their group and the timing fits.”

“I don’t understand you,” Luvi shook his head. “Nor your need to come up with those mad theories that will bring no good to anyone and could easily have serious consequences for all involved. You at least have your work as an excuse, Gusti can’t be touched in the Guild, but Damian and the rest…”

“None of them are particularly interested in moving up the Nilfgaardian army ranks,” Alvar said sourly, dropping his voice so that only the inn-keeper would hear him. “As for the theories… It really doesn’t bother you that the empire took advantage of the situation and through the emperor’s marriage bound Cintra to Nilfgaard, effectively silencing us?”

“The empire already had Cintra anyway,” Luvi gave the room a sweeping look, checking on the customers, and went back to wiping the tankards. “The imperial marriage didn’t change much. You would do well to drop it, Alvar.”

“But we’re not _doing_ anything,” he protested. “We’re just researching the facts.”

Luvi put down the tankard, threw the cloth over his shoulder and looked at him gravely.

“A few people ended up on the gallows for the subject of your research,” he said, his voice a near whisper. “As a historian, you should know it best. You were the one who told me about it.”

Alvar took another large sip to hide the sudden discomfort and cast a furtive glance around. Save for a few friends from the academy and a group of merchants he knew, the nearest tables were empty. A few tables down he spotted a hooded figure, but the person seemed too far to be able to hear their conversation in the surrounding noise. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“How are the kids?” he decided to change the subject anyway, just to be on the safe side. 

“They’re great; they’re growing up too fast though, can’t keep up,” the inn-keeper smiled. “Mari came up with a new idea recently; this time she wants to become a ship captain. Can you imagine? At least she dropped the pirate madness.”

“They’re creative,” Alvar laughed.

“Right. At this rate I’m actually afraid what might come next. And you? How are you both doing? I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“All’s well, thanks. Amelie is visiting her sister today.”

“Ah, I see,” Luvi chuckled.

Alvar sighed.

“Aren’t you all tired of mocking me?”

“Me, mocking a customer?” 

They were interrupted by a group of sailors - from Novigrad, and freshly disembarked, if their accents and their _smell_ were any indication - who sat around a large table on the opposite side of the bar and loudly demanded attention. 

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Luvi smiled apologetically.

“Naturally. I have to be going myself, too. I’ll see you, Luvi.”

“Until next time, my friend.”

Alvar finished his drink, threw the coin onto the counter and decided to go home.

***

He turned onto a narrow street leading to the Crows Square, when he felt a knife between his shoulder blades. 

“No sudden movements, I insist,” a female voice behind him said quietly. 

“I have nothing valuable-“ 

“Silence. Walk ahead. And no weird ideas.”

He obeyed, a cold shiver running down his spine, his hands going sweaty. He didn’t have much coin on him, nor any weapons. This was Cintra, where he knew every turn and every corner. With quiet orders, she was leading him towards the harbour district. He was trying to look around discreetly, but he only managed to catch her reflection once in a window of a shop they passed. It didn’t give him much though, as she was wearing a cape with a large hood that concealed her features. He wondered if it was the same person he spotted in the inn earlier, but he couldn’t be sure. 

They turned into a narrow, uninviting lane and his heart sank – there was nobody within sight that might have possibly come to his aid. Alvar felt the panic threatening to overcome him; he still had no idea what the woman could possibly want from him.

“The doors to your right,” she ordered. “Follow the stairs to the landing. And don’t try anything.”

Upstairs, she led him into the living quarters; some hundred similar ones dotted the harbour area; usually used by people, for whom a low profile was a priority. The only thing that gave him some small measure of comfort was the fact that they were alone.

She grabbed a chair and placed it in the middle of the room, facing the wall.

“Sit.”

He obeyed. He heard her footsteps behind him.

“What did you talk to the inn-keeper about?” she asked sharply. 

“That… That was nothing,” he replied, his mind working frantically. If she was a spy, that was either Dijkstra or Nilfgaard; but the imperial forces’ approach was usually to use brute strength, rather than spies. “I’m a historian and the blank spaces in Cintra’s history are my passion.”

“What blank spaces?”

He suddenly realised his next words might mean a death sentence for him and his friends, and he still didn't know whom he was talking to. He thought bitterly – and somewhat belatedly – that Luvi’s warnings were not so ungrounded after all. 

“I’m studying the life of the late empress. I’m trying to find out what happened to her during the Second Northern War.”

“She went to Nilfgaard and asked for asylum. What more is there to study?”

He felt drops of sweat forming on his forehead. 

“There are some conflicting reports…”

“For sniffing around which one can hang,” she cut in. “As I recall, in the inn you mentioned a group of bandits. What would bandits have to do with the empress? I think you’re lying, master historian.”

He sat in silence for a moment, gathering thoughts through the fear that held him in a firm grip; gathering courage. He had no way of knowing how much she overheard, but it was quickly becoming obvious that it was too late for him to lie anyway. 

“Some people… Don’t believe in the official version of the events, my lady,” he said breathlessly, his throat tight with panic.

This time she was silent for a moment, and with each heartbeat his dread intensified.

“And what do these people believe in?” she asked in quiet voice after what felt like an eternity. “Don’t be afraid. You’re not in any danger. If you tell me the truth.”

He closed his eyes, resigned to his fate. 

“That the Lion Cub is alive,” he replied, barely audible.

He suddenly had an eerie feeling that the atmosphere in the room changed somehow.

“Rats,” she said after another seemingly endless moment of silence.

Surprised, he opened his eyes and dared to take a breath.

“My lady…?”

“The bandits you mentioned in the tavern. They called themselves Rats. I told them to call me Falka.”

For a moment, he didn’t understand what he just heard. Then he started analyzing the potential implications of her words and his breath caught in his throat again. He risked turning around and looking at her. She removed the hood and stood behind him, her arms crossed on her chest. Big, emerald eyes, silver hair, an ugly scar across her left cheek. Behind her, he noticed in surprise, a middle-aged man stood, a man he didn’t hear coming in at all. But his focus was solely on her, on looking for answers to the questions he didn’t dare bringing up.

“How many of those sceptical people like yourself are there?” the man asked, his voice gentle, reassuring. 

“Five, my lord,” Alvar managed.

The woman - he didn’t allow himself to refer to her by the name, not yet - shook her head with a grimace.

“An army.”

“My… My lady?”

She sighed.

“You can stop stuttering. I said you’re in no danger.”

“Other than a danger of acquiring rights to a piece of land and an estate in some still-uncertain future,” her companion threw in, smiling a tight-lipped smile.

“Regis, don’t give away Nilfgaardian land to strangers,” she chided the man playfully. “The emperor may be dead, but let’s not get carried away here.”

Alvar looked from one to the other, and the overwhelming mixture of hope, bewilderment and lingering fear made him register her words with a delay.

“The emperor is _dead_?”

“There was a coup in Nilfgaard three days ago,” she said, and her voice faltered a little. “Emhyr was murdered.”

Alvar shook his head, his occupational instinct kicking in and chasing away the last threads of the earlier panic.

“Nobody heard of it here yet,” he considered the news for a moment. “I wonder what that means for Cintra…”

“Temporary confusion. Which is why I’m here,” she said gently, fixing this emerald gaze of hers on him. “You were right, you and your friends. The late empress was an impostor, some poor merchant’s daughter from Brugge. I am alive and well, thanks first and foremost to the barber-surgeon right here, Emiel Regis. I want to get Cintra back – and I need your help.”

For a long moment he simply stared at her, dumbfounded. He never believed in the official version of the events, spread by Nilfgaard – too many details just didn’t add up. But at the same time, he never really believed that after so many years Cirilla would return to Cintra to reclaim the throne. That he would actually _meet_ her. And even in his wildest dreams he did not imagine that – by gods – she would need _them_ : a group of friends discussing history, subject of ridicule and worry of their friends and families. 

The barber-surgeon’s voice cut through his musings.

“Those friends of yours - could you tell us anything more? Would any of them have any links to the Cintrian army?”

“They do indeed,” Alvar answered without thinking. “Three of them are soldiers on active duty.”

The man exchanged glances with – _Cirilla_.

“I want to meet them all, and as soon as possible,” she said. ”Could this be arranged?”

“Yes, of course,” Alvar said nervously, hoping with his entire being that everything that was said was true, that he wasn’t getting them all in trouble. “In fact, I’ll be seeing them tomorrow, my lady.”

He paused to reassess the situation to the best of his confounded brain’s capabilities. He was fully aware the knowledge he had made it his duty to confirm that this was indeed the Lion Cub herself and not another impostor. The problem was that the vision of independence, of Calanthe’s blood ascending to the throne, was exhilarating. So much, in fact, that he no longer trusted his judgement to be impartial. The problem was, he already believed her.

But still - he had to _try_ before he would bring her to meet the rest of them; he owed his friends this much.

“Apologies, my lady,” he began, trying to put the words circling in his mind into an approximation of a coherent sentence. “I want… I mean… I believe you, but…”

“What our master historian here is trying to say,” the barber-surgeon cut in again, giving him a small smile, “is that he himself has no doubts about your identity, but he still needs some proof to support your claim.”

She looked at him, her brows furrowed.

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

Alvar thought about her question, trying to choose a detail only real Cirilla would be able to shed some light on.

“Your father-“

She looked at him for a long moment in silence, then shot a quick glance at her companion, before returning her attention to him.

“It’s a long and complicated story,” she said slowly. “Extremely complicated, in fact. He very much wasn't who he said he was. But I’ll tell you everything you want to know tomorrow, as your friends would also need some proof and explanation. Where are you meeting?”

“At the Silver Sturgeon. The owner is a friend, he’s letting us use one of the private rooms.”

To his sudden horror he realised that he spent all this time talking to her – to the _queen_ – sitting down. He jumped out of the chair and was about to drop to his knees, but she stopped him with a gesture.

“Don’t,” she smiled. “If it all works out, you’ll have enough opportunities. If it works out. I don’t think I know the place - can you take me there?”

He bowed deeply.

“I’ll be here just after the sunset.”

“Excellent. I shall see you then.”

Once he was out of the door, he had to use all his willpower to stop himself from running down the stairs. He could barely contain all the emotions buzzing inside him, and could not wait to meet the others. 

He set off briskly towards home when he heard the harbour bell tower striking the hour, and his enthusiasm was quickly replaced with a quiet dread. What was he supposed to tell his wife?

***

Ciri was looking through the window after the historian.

“What do you think?” she asked quietly.

“He speaks the truth,” Regis replied. “But there’s only a handful of them.”

“He said three of them are soldiers, which means we still have some chances. The Cintrian army had always been extremely loyal,” Ciri turned to him with a grimace. “If they can be convinced, naturally.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m more worried about what comes next.”

“So am I, but I’m going to wait till tomorrow. I need more information before I can plan the next steps,” she smiled back. “For now, I’m starving. What would you say to the best seafood in the capital?”

“Wherever you go, I’ll follow, Your Highness,” he bowed low, copying the historian, but he still didn't miss the glare she gave him.

“Vampire,“ she snorted. “You’ll run out of all the false praise before I even reclaim that throne.”

He smirked at her.

“I daresay you underestimate my creativity, Swallow.”

***

_“Our group had its genesis in a certain alcohol-fueled discussion between me and Damian Longruff, the captain in the Cintrian army, whom I had known since childhood. When a few bottles of Toussaint wine loosened our tongues and dulled our caution, we had a long and heated argument about politics, only to realise we shared some very similar and highly dangerous opinions on the subject of the imperial marriage._

_Once sober, we compared our experiences and the information we had and we decided to try and find further evidence in support of our theory – a daring claim that it was not Cirilla whom the emperor married and that Cirilla herself was alive - in the sources we both had access to due to our respective positions. For me as a historian that meant the official archives, for Damian, the Nilfgaardian army reports._

_Sometime later we were joined by a few more: Ebo Simons and Fabial Aling, Damian’s friends from the army, and Gusti van Orst from the Merchants’ Guild, and our meetings became more regular. During the next few years we managed to recreate a few incidents from the Second and the Third Northern War, where a woman, who could potentially be Cirilla, was involved._

_The events we uncovered, however, were but a fraction of the incredible and often barely believable story of the Lion Cub of Cintra; a story we heard from her directly one late July evening, mere weeks before the events that changed the course of history.”_

***

“Alvar is late,” Ebo murmured. “I hope he didn’t get into trouble.”

“Trouble,” Damian snorted. “In his case, the biggest trouble he can get into is to tell his wife what we’re doing.”

That earned him a few chuckles. Amelie Lacroix’s beauty was legendary; so was her character. Alvar did his best to pretend he wasn’t afraid of his beloved’s temper, but nobody was buying it. 

“I wonder who will be sent here by the merciful capital, now that the emperor is dead,” Gusti gloomily changed the subject. 

The news about the coup in Nilfgaard erupted earlier that morning and rippled across Cintra. In the light of an uncertain future of the current governor, the atmosphere in the city was marginally more relaxed. 

“We could put forward an argument that the next emperor has no right to the Cintrian throne,” Ebo said.

“Sure,” Damian drawled. “Because the empire is known in the whole wide world for its generosity and granting independence to the conquered lands.”

“Besides, who do you suggest would rule?” Fabian, who sat silently so far, spoke. “The High Council?”

“May all the gods of all the religions protect us from _that_ ,” Gusti grunted. “I prefer Nilfgaard.”

“Wouldn’t it be great to find the Cub,” Ebo said dreamily.

“The Lioness,” corrected Damian with a smile. “She would soon be twenty-six.”

“That title belongs to Queen Calanthe,” Fabian protested sourly. “It’s unseemly to grant it pro forma.”

“True,” Damian nodded, when a movement caught his attention. He was the only one facing the door, so he was the first to spot Alvar coming in. The historian wasn’t alone though – a woman was with him; a slim, slender figure hiding her face under a large hood. As they were approaching, Damian noticed that Alvar seemed pale and shaken. Alarmed, he looked at Alvar’s companion, searching for any clues as to her identity - and a reason for her showing up here at all.

“Alvar, at last. We thought Amelie stopped you,” Fabian said, turning around. He frowned at the sight of the woman. “And this is?”

“This…” Alvar started in a strange voice, then threw a quick glance around as if to make sure they were still alone, and exploded. “We were right! All this time, we were right!”

His companion removed the hood and studied their small group without a word. 

Damian suddenly forgot to breathe. Eyes. She had Calanthe’s eyes. Hair more silver than ashen-grey but he had some vague memories about the effects of magic… And on top of all that she was…beautiful. Even an ugly scar across her left cheek could not change that.

The others also stared at her in a shocked silence.

“Cirilla, the queen of Cintra, has returned!” Alvar beamed.

“No queen yet,” she interrupted him in a dry tone. “So far, it’s only ‘a turning point in Cintra’s history’, as some scholars will hopefully write in some distant, brighter future.”

It took Damian a moment to get over the shock and gather his thoughts, while around him a mayhem erupted.

It was obvious she won Alvar over already, but he’d always had romantic tendencies. Ebo, Gusti, and Fabian jumped to their feet, clearly torn between the necessity to kneel before her and to ask difficult questions. He himself was waiting for an opportune moment, not letting himself give in to hope just yet, harbouring the lingering doubts.

Ebo, as usual, got his wits back first.

“My lady…” he decided on a bow as a compromise. “Is that…really you?”

She looked at him and Damian had again that eerie feeling he was seeing Calanthe. But he was also painfully aware that part of him was desperate to find any smallest trace of the Lioness in the woman standing in front of them.

Ebo must have shared his sentiment, however, as his blush reached all the way to the back of his neck.

“You do realise this question sounds really silly?” she asked in a surprisingly warm tone. 

Ebo shrank and looked as if he wanted to disappear. Fabian looked at Alvar.

“Explain, please.”

“No, I’ll do it,” she cut in. “I don’t know how I can prove to you I’m not another impostor, or someone’s puppet. If you have any suggestions, do speak. Now, to answer your questions, both asked and unasked: yes, it’s me,” she smiled at Ebo, who blushed again.

“I’ve returned only now, because only now the need to get my home back was stronger than the refusal to become a pawn in others’ game. Also, only now, after Emhyr’s death, do we have any chance at all to get _anything_ back. I was with Geralt, with the elves and in places you wouldn’t believe in if I told you.

“The last three years I spent as a witcher, slaying monsters, and I was getting quite good at that, actually. The scar is from an orion that Steffan Skellen, the imperial coroner, hurt me with over thirteen years ago; I nearly died from that wound. I can use magic; in a manner of speaking. If I left anything out, ask. I’ll answer all your questions, within reason, naturally,” she looked at each one of them. “I need your trust, first and foremost, to achieve anything at all.”

Damian sensed his chance; he got up and bowed.

“Welcome back, my lady,” he said quietly, trying very hard to keep the trembling in his voice to a minimum. Discussing the implications of her potential return might have been an interesting intellectual exercise before, but seeing her in flesh, after twenty years...

“None of us here believed in your marriage to the emperor, nor in your death. But to actually meet you in person is quite something else,” he managed a smile. 

“Especially for me. My father was a member of the Queen Calanthe’s Palace Guard, and he would sometimes take me with him to the palace. We would play for hours in the palace grounds; you were allowed to join us a few times.”

He broke off to take a calming breath. She was looking at him with a quiet focus, her head tilted and an unreadable expression on her face, but he thought he saw something flashing in her eyes. He was aware that the others were looking at him expectantly, and the pressure made him sweat a little, for this was it: a validation of her claim. 

“I remember how one chase atop of the palace walls ended with both of us falling down… I still have a scar on my knee and you, my lady, if I’m not mistaken, had the entire right side of your body badly injured. My mother was terrified as Queen Calanthe was beyond furious; I was banned from going to the palace for months. But in the meantime, the war broke out…”

He let his voice trail off, his attention fixed on her, on her reaction; waiting for her next words with his breath held.

“Once my bruises healed up a bit she got me whopped for that,” she replied with a crooked smile. 

She rolled up her sleeve, showing a small, white line along her elbow, nearly lost among her other scars, then looked him in the eyes.

“Left,” she corrected him softly. “Left side of my body. Congratulations on your excellent memory…” she frowned, seemingly in concentration, while he felt dizziness at her words, as _all_ the details checked out, including the ones he deliberately mixed up. “...Daniel? Did I pass?”

For a moment, he felt paralysed. When he got his limbs back under control, he dropped to his knees and, raising his sword above his head, offered it to her with a low bow. 

“Damian, my Queen,” he said, his voice barely audible for the trembling he was no longer able to control. “My life and my sword belong to the Crown. My Queen may use it however she sees fit.”

He heard the clatter of weapons and from the corner of his eye he saw the others following him.

“Gentlemen, careful or I may get used to this,” she laughed, but her voice changed all the same. “I accept your swords, with utmost relief and gratitude. As for your lives, keep them for yourselves for as long as possible. Do rise, I insist. This bear we’re selling the skin of here is still very much alive and prone to fury.”

***

“Does Your Highness have a plan?”

She shook her head impatiently. 

“Please drop the official forms, they are far too premature, and make communication too complicated,” she drank a sip of wine and looked at them. “I don’t have any specific plans yet. I need detailed information from you first; information on the numbers we’re dealing with, and on the situation in the country. The only certain thing is that we don’t have much time. The turmoil after my esteemed father’s death will die out very soon.”

“Your…whom, my lady?” Ebo asked incredulously. 

“Duny, the Urcheon of Erlenwald, was none other than the White Flame that is dancing on the graves of his foes no longer, Emhyr var Emreis,” she said, hints of bitterness in her voice.

Beside him, Alvar made a strange, strangled sound. 

“ _Extremely complicated_?” he managed.

Damian darted a look at him, confused, but Cirilla only smiled.

“Like I said,” she nodded at the historian. “I did promise you answers to your questions.”

“But… He _married_ the false Cirilla?” Gusti asked in bewilderment.

“I can't offer you any insight on the subject of my father’s sick plans for me,” she snorted. “All I can tell you is that he eventually abandoned them, and even later attempted to make me his heir. Before he could do it though, before I could even make up my mind on this, he was assassinated. I was in Nilfgaard at the time; he died in my arms. I realised there and then that I want nothing less than the imperial throne - and that this could be the only chance for Cintra.”

For a few heartbeats nobody broke the silence. Eventually, Alvar shook his head.

“The emperor,” he said. “I…can’t believe it. We did find out he lied about who he was, but to my knowledge this explanation had never occurred to anybody. Unless…” he broke off.

“Unless?” she urged him.

“There are reports…” Alvar said slowly, “that during the Slaughter, Queen Calanthe’s orders were to have you killed rather than to let you fall into the Nilfgaardian hands to be defiled, as she called it. Do you think… Is it possible that the Queen might have at any point discovered your father's true identity?”

A grimace of pain flashed across her face.

“I don't know,” she shook her head. “I have only vague memories of him from my childhood. I do seem to remember though that they were quite fond of one another…” 

“That might explain the statue,” Damian said, another piece of a puzzle falling into place.

She raised her eyebrows at him in a silent question.

“You don't know about it, my lady?” Gusti smiled. “The emperor had ordered a cenotaph of Queen Calanthe built and placed in the palace crypts. No expense was spared; it’s a true work of art. I always assumed it was a cynical move to win the people over…”

“That still remains the most plausible explanation,” she said bitterly, but her voice faltered a little. 

She reached for the cup of wine; Damian noticed her hand was trembling too and he felt an urge to do something, to comfort her somehow. But before he could find any appropriate words, she looked up at them, calm and composed again. 

“Keep what you learnt here to yourselves,” she said grimly. “I’m not sure how many people are aware of my parentage. Emhyr’s successor, whoever that might be, might feel obliged to remove me from the picture.”

“My lady,” Ebo began, hesitating a little. “Forgive me… Will you tell us what happened to you? I’m aware there are more pressing matters, but...”

She smiled at him; a small, sad smile.

“I will tell you a short version, as it’s a really long story.”

***

When Cirilla finished, Damian shook his head.

“I’m glad we didn’t dig some of those up. I don’t think we’d be sitting here today.”

“Nobody would care about us,” Alvar announced with bravado.

“I believe you said something similar in the inn yesterday,” Cirilla smirked at him. “And yet, here we are. Some people just happen to care.”

Alvar failed to find any response to that.

“So, what’s next?” Fabian asked, throwing the quietly sulking historian an amused look.

She looked from one to another.

“Next, I need you to tell me what the situation is like, both here, in the capital, and in other parts of the country. Whom and what we can count on, who might cause trouble.”

“There are approximately twelve hundred Cintrian soldiers in the capital,” Fabian replied. “Damian, Ebo and myself are all in different companies. We should be able to spread the call for an uprising quietly enough. I guarantee you, my lady, everyone will support you once it is confirmed you have indeed returned.”

“This news has to spread wide but also as quietly as possible,” Cirilla pointed out with a grimace. “Otherwise we’ll have Dijkstra here before we know it.”

“Leave that to us,” Ebo jumped in. Fabian nodded in agreement.

“Nilfgaardian garrison in the capital is approximately four thousand men strong. Things look even worse in other parts of the country though.”

“Where are their forces concentrated?”

“Mostly at the border along the river. We will be badly outnumbered there.”

She fell silent, digesting the news for a moment. Damian was watching her, part of him still in shock.

“So, our best chance seems to be to pacify the capital and to force the governor to cooperate,” she said.

“But we need some forces along the Yaruga,” Ebo protested.

“We do,” she nodded. “How many soldiers do we have there?”

Fabian looked at Damian, who had to make some effort to focus.

“A few battalions,” he replied slowly. “I don’t have the exact numbers, I need to check who got the allocation there. You need to remember, my lady, that our army was very nearly annihilated during the Second War. Moreover, a good ten thousand deserted and crossed over to Temeria, and only half of them later availed of the imperial amnesty. Nilfgaard did loosen the sanctions against the army after the imperial wedding, to keep the illusion that the rightful queen sat on the throne, but the recruitment was mostly to the Palace Guard, rather than to the regular army. Their numbers remained low.”

“And Nilfgaardian forces at the border?”

“A full division, some thirteen thousand strong. And that may be an underestimation.”

“Wonderful,” Cirilla sighed. “Splendid even. We seem to have nothing but ambition and faith, so let’s attempt the impossible.”

“Ambition and faith, combined with determination, have won more battles than reason would want to admit,” Gusti smiled.

She smiled back and got up.

“Gentlemen, I think that’s enough for today. Please gather any information you can, find out whom we can trust and who trusts us. When can we meet again?”

They exchanged glances.

“Normally we’d meet every fortnight, but under the circumstances…” Fabian said.

“In two days’ time?” she suggested.

Damian looked to others for confirmation. He decided to ignore the look of panic on Alvar’s face.

“Agreed. Even if not all of us will be able to make it, we should have some better estimates for you.”

“Excellent. I shall see you then.”

She put her hood back and was gone, leaving them in a stunned silence, looking from one to another. 

“I don’t believe it,” Gusti spoke first. “I still don’t believe it.”

Alvar looked at them triumphantly. 

“I knew it, I knew she’d convince you!”

“Tell us everything,” Damian said.

Alvar told them about the discovery in the archives, his talk with Luvi, Cirilla kidnapping him and their conversation. When he finished, Fabian shook his head.

“Get ready, friends,” he smiled a feral smile. “Interesting times are upon us.”

***

Dijkstra was staring at an innocent-looking piece of paper that lay on top of the documents covering his desk, nearly waiting for it to catch fire at any moment. He couldn’t quite bring himself to believe what he just read, even though he knew well their informants in Nilfgaard were the best of the best; selected carefully through a long and ruthless process. They had to be undetectable and entirely reliable if they wanted to remain alive - and close enough to the court for their information to be worth anything at all. All these logical and well-known facts still couldn’t help him process the news the message carried.

The arrival of the Redania’s head of intelligence snapped him out of his stunned thoughts. 

“Your Majesty,” Rune Torren was the best his country’s internal intelligence services offered, which only meant that he was a little less disappointing than the rest of the lot. Without a word, Dijkstra handed him the report. The spy read the short message and looked back at Redania’s chancellor in a shock.

“The emperor is dead?!”

“Your surprise doesn’t give you any fucking credit,” Dikstra growled. “Nor does it give me much. How did we miss something this big? And where in the seven hells is Cirilla?”

“Emhyr had clearly missed it too,” Torren shook his head and read the message again. “No leads as to who’s behind it…”

“Merchants’ Guild. They had an eye on him for a long time now, but I didn’t think they had the means…” Dijkstra leaned back in his chair that protested with a dangerous, squeaky sound. “The question is, what’s next.”

“Voorhis?” Torren frowned in thought.

“Most likely, even though he was close to Emhyr.” Dijkstra fell silent for a moment, then continued to think aloud – a habit he couldn’t shake. “But he does have strong ties to the Guild; only that had saved his family when the previous attempt at a coup was uncovered. But if it is him will largely depend on how much of a revolution our southern friends plan to orchestrate. And how much independence they will allow the new emperor to enjoy. After all, Emhyr’s insubordination was a bitter disappointment to many.”

He was silent for another few heartbeats.

“No news on our ashen-haired monster slayer?” 

“None, my lord,” Torren shook his head. “Nothing since that Maribor contract, when the Nilfgaardian squad was asking around for her. It’s as if she disappeared into thin air,” he broke off for a moment, before hesitantly adding, “Your Majesty, we know she was badly injured and that the Nilfgaardians failed to find her. She might be dead…”

“No,” Dijkstra cut him off; he got up and walked over to the large map of the North, that covered one of the walls. “She’s not dead. She had been declared dead a few times before, and by many, only to reappear, usually at the worst possible time and place-” he broke off as a sudden thought hit him. The worst possible time for him was undoubtedly now. As for the place… 

He turned to Torren abruptly. “The most up-to-date reports on the situation in Temeria. At once,” he barked. “And estimates on the numbers of companies we can reassign, without losing Maribor and Gors Velen.”

“Reassign to where, my lord?”

“Torren, by the Great fucking Sun. To Cintra.”

The spy looked at him, frowning.

“Does Your Majesty truly believe Cirilla is plotting something?”

Dijkstra shrugged.

“She’s of both Emhyr’s and Calanthe’s blood – a rather worrying mix, if you ask me. Our favourite witcher thinks of her as his daughter, and it just so happens that a great many of those, who underestimated her in the past, died, and often under her sword. I’m not planning to make that mistake,” he glanced at the map again. “And if I’m right and the Lion Cub really is planning to come back… Then she’s coming for Cintra.”

***

_“We had been asked many times about the mysterious barber-surgeon with aristocratic manners, who accompanied Cirilla. Unfortunately, I am forced to leave my readers disappointed. Other than what we witnessed, we never learnt anything more about him – who he was, where he came from, what were his ties to Cirilla – neither in the time before the Uprising, nor after his sudden and unexpected disappearance a mere weeks after the coronation. Even Damian, who spent the longest time with the Queen and Regis both, could tell us nothing more about him._

_What was certain to all was the trust Cirilla placed in him, and unsurprisingly so, as time and again he proved his remarkable intuition. It very quickly became clear to us all why the Queen had chosen him to advise her._

_His role in the dramatic events that followed also cannot be underestimated. Looking back, it is certain that many situations would have had a different outcome had it not been for him.”_

***

The five of them were already present when Cirilla turned up. She wasn’t alone. 

“Gentlemen, please meet Emiel Regis, a dear friend whom I asked for help with this mad endeavor.”

While the introductions were taking place, Damian studied the man: middle-aged, of a slim build, dressed in combination of earthy tones and elegant blacks. Alvar mentioned he was a barber-surgeon, which was made very evident by the scent of herbs surrounding him like a cloak - but Damian could not shake an eerie feeling this wasn’t quite _all_ the man was. There was something about the way he carried himself, something about his aura that strongly suggested aristocracy. 

He was also now examining them, his black eyes watchful.

“My utmost respect and admiration,” he said with a small smile, “for your astute minds - and your faith in Ciri.” 

Alvar snorted.

“If one ever had the pleasure of seeing Queen Calanthe, master Regis, they would never take the mousy girl, holding the emperor’s arm as if her life depended on it-“

“Which it likely did,” Fabian cut in.

“-for the Lioness’ granddaughter,” Alvar finished, glaring at him.

“And yet that’s exactly what the entire country did, and with it the rest of the world,” Cirilla said, her tone sour.

“The entire country had enough of war,” Damian said somberly, which earned him a strange look from her. “And don’t forget, my lady, that the alternatives for Cintra weren’t that much better.”

“And now?” she retorted, those Lioness’ eyes fixed on him. “What does the country consider worse now: war or Nilfgaard? I would hate to drag people through fire and death in the name of some made-up and ultimately meaningless idea. Not if they are content with things as they are.”

That took them all by surprise. Or, almost all – Damian noticed Regis darted a look at Cirilla with the barest hint of a smile.

“Our situation is far from stable,” Fabian was the first to break the silence. “There’s no war within our borders, true. But any insubordination is met with disproportionate cruelty and punishment. The army regularly, if unofficially, organizes lynching to keep people in check. We lost any pretense of independence and all the issues and claims are resolved, or rather ignored, in Nilfgaard proper.”

“So that scene in the harbour three days ago was not an unusual case?” she interrupted, her voice strained.

Damian shook his head, understanding at once what she was referring to. 

“Unfortunately, not. It’s not always quite as brutal, but it’s not unheard of either. Treason is punishable by death, after all. And the imperial definition of treason is very wide.”

“I know,” she said, visibly struggling to keep calm. “I was there when those men died. As if I needed a clearer sign I should be here. Should _have been_ here.” 

She sounded...guilty, Damian realised in astonishment, which was not at all what he expected of her.

“You couldn't have helped them - or done anything for the rest of us any earlier, my lady,” Ebo was quicker to react, again.

She gave him a small, thankful nod.

“I know that, logically,” she replied quietly. “But the helplessness is driving me mad. I wish I could just _do_ something, now. This...this politics, planning, strategy; all of this is so not what I'm used to.”

“On the contrary; this is exactly what you have been trained to do,” Regis suddenly spoke and Cirilla spun around to look at him. He smiled at her. “Just think of it as a really powerful monster to slay. You would spend a considerable length of time preparing for such a fight. The only difference here is the nature of those preparations.”

That clearly worked; Cirilla chuckled, and shook her head at the man.

“A monster, huh? Fitting, I suppose. Just get me some oils and potions and I'll be on my way.”

“Nilfgaard won't know what hit it,” Damian couldn't help laughing. He could no longer tell what he was looking forward to more: getting rid of Nilfgaard’s rule, or getting to know _her_ ; as a queen and as a person both. 

”Well, I do hope so,” she turned back to them with a grin, but it disappeared quickly. “Tell me what you managed to find out. And please, have some good news.”

“So far we learnt that our opinion works against us,” Ebo sighed. 

Cirilla cocked her head to the side, her eyebrows raised.

“After we talked to a few trusted people, the most common reaction was an advice to drink less,” Damian grimaced. “They eventually asked to meet you in person. Even tonight, if possible. Would you be willing to consider it?”

“This doesn’t sound like the best idea,” Regis cut in. “Even putting aside Cirilla’s physical safety, we need to remember there are bound to be informers among your ranks.”

Damian turned to him.

“I vouch for these men,” he said. “I’ve known them all for well over a decade. They are all honorable and fiercely loyal - and would want nothing more than some way out of our current situation. The only problem would be to get you, my lady,” he nodded at Cirilla, “into the army barracks, safely and without raising any suspicion.”

“That is the least of our problems,” she smiled. “If the place doesn’t have an advanced magical protection, I can just teleport myself there.”

“If you have an answer to all our problems, maybe we should go directly to the palace?” Fabian chuckled. 

“I wish,” she laughed. “But let’s gather some friends first. I’m ready to go and meet your trusted people tonight - but does that mean we still know nothing about the Cintrian army?”

“It’s not quite so bad,” Ebo jumped in quickly. “People have declared that, assuming we’re not suffering from hallucinations, we have their full support.”

She snorted and Damian couldn’t help but wonder how the Cintrian higher circles would react to her bluntness and complete disregard of etiquette. He had to forced down a smile; he could barely wait to find out.

“If our aim is to gain your comrades in arms’ trust and support, it would be beneficial to have at least a rough outline of a plan, would it not?” Regis said quietly.

“The voice of reason, as usual,” Cirilla threw him an amused look and reached out into her pouch, from which she produced a small scroll that she unravelled over the table, blocking four corners with their cups. 

Fabian whistled quietly. The innocent piece of paper turned out to be an intricate and detailed map of the Northern Kingdoms, from Marnadal Stairs to the Dragon Mountains, with the lines of interrelations and influences marked: between countries, guilds and other players. 

Alvar nearly tripped over, leaning over the table and studying the map with fascination.

“Where did you find this piece of art, my lady?” he asked in awe.

“I borrowed it from the imperial library,” she smirked.

Regis shook his head.

“Your gathering information for the future, whatever that future might have been, is quite impressive, if a little cold-blooded.”

“Thank you; I think?” she threw the barber-surgeon a look that carried a challenge, but he ignored it.

“Redania doesn’t look too good,” Ebo murmured.

“It looks very bad,” she corrected him. “The news of my father’s untimely demise must have reached Dijkstra by now. We can safely assume he is looking to take the full advantage of the situation, and as you can see, he’s dangerous. He does have his own problems, both in Temeria and internally, but these are unlikely to stop him. The most we can count on is for those problems to delay him a little, giving us a bit more time. 

“Temeria itself is out of the question, their guerillas too engaged in their fight and too spread out. I have no idea about the situation in Lyria and Rivia. I’m going to ask Skellige for help and they will most likely join us; Crach an Craite died during the battle with the Wild Hunt, but Cerys will honor his pledge given to my grandmother. But this is still nowhere near enough to irritate the empire.”

“Queen Meve still rules in Lyria,” Damian pointed out. “Since she’s Queen Calanthe’s cousin, I’m sure she wouldn’t refuse to come to your aid, my lady. But you have to remember their army was also decimated during the wars.”

“Kovir?” asked Regis, studying the map.

“They have always maintained their neutrality,” she shook her head.

“With the exception of funding the offensive against Nilfgaard during the Second Northern War,” said Gusti with a crooked smile, tapping his finger at the blue lines of the Merchants’ Guild’s connections. “Which is something I found out by accident and should know nothing about, so do keep it to yourselves.”

“Precedent…” Cirilla said slowly. “I’ll think about it…”

“Mages?” Alvar suggested.

Her only comment was a glare accompanied by an imaginative curse.

“I understand, no mages,” Alvar withdrew immediately and Damian had to stifle a laugh.

The future was shaping up to be _very_ interesting. He only hoped they would live long enough to see it.

***

_“Convincing the Cintrian garrison didn’t go as smooth as we had originally assumed. At first, nobody believed us, or took us seriously._

_The first wasn’t really that surprising – after all I myself could hardly believe in the unfolding of events, and I was the one that Cirilla found and interrogated._

_The latter also was something we should have foreseen. After all, we all had worked hard for such reaction for years. Damian’s interest in the Lion Cub’s fate was no secret among his friends, therefore convincing them we did not, in fact, succumb to madness was more difficult than we had assumed._

_All that was forgotten however, once Cirilla herself appeared in the army barracks. It took her no time at all to win over the Cintrian officers and to gain their trust. The devotion the army had for the Lioness of Cintra was legendary; once it was confirmed that the Lion Cub herself had returned, there wasn’t a soldier amongst them who wasn’t ready to fight, and die if necessary, for Cirilla; for Cintra.”_

***

“How did the meeting go?” Regis asked as soon as she came in.

“Damian exaggerated when he spoke about their distrust,” she smiled and put the swords away. “They were at my feet pretty much as soon as they saw me. A strange and slightly unsettling experience… But at least we have the full and unconditional support of the entire Cintrian garrison. They’re waiting for the signal.”

He nodded with a smile.

“Excellent. What’s next then?”

She sat down across the table from him and thought about his question for a moment. What she had still couldn’t really be called a plan; not by a long shot. It was more a collection of loose ideas, sewn together with hope. And a lot of it.

“I’ll leave Skellige till the end… Lyria then. And, as you suggested, Kovir. Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” he repeated, frowning. “How so?”

“Tankred Thyssen will not agree to get his country involved in our conflict with Nilfgaard without gaining substantial rewards for Kovir,” she sighed. She didn’t quite like the thought of it - but she was committed to this path now.

At least this time it wasn’t just a path she was told she was born to walk, like so many others that had been forced onto her over the years; this one she chose herself, which, unsurprisingly, made all the difference.

Regis studied her closely.

“Do you know anything about the king as a person?” he asked.

“Very little,” she shook her head. “His father was a brilliant monarch, cunning, wise, widely esteemed and highly respected. He made the country into the powerful player it is now. I know next to nothing about Tankred himself; only the fact he’s not a psychopath like Radovid, as he offered an asylum for Triss and the other mages when they fled Novigrad.”

Regis was still looking at her with a deep frown.

“I’ll be fine, vampire,” she smiled. “I’ve been in worse situations.”

“ThatI do not doubt _,”_ he said dryly. “But you have to agree this is something quite different. Can you not at least ask Triss for an insight? She is a friend, is she not?”

“A friend, yes,” Ciri grimaced. “But she’s still closely linked to whatever remains of the Lodge. I have no idea what Philippa Eilhart’s plans are, but I’m not going to compromise my position. The situation is suicidal enough without the Lodge’s interference. I know it’s a gamble, but I have to do it.”

“You are planning to make a serious commitment with very little information as to the nature of it,” he said quietly. “You need to remember such commitments are not easily broken; not in your position. Are you truly convinced this is the best course of action?” 

“I am, in fact. I appreciate your concern, vampire, I really do,” she tried to make her tone as affectionate - but hard - as possible. “But I’ll manage. And if this mad idea works at all, this is my only chance to keep Cintra. I need a strong alliance, otherwise Nilfgaard or Redania will immediately crush me; and I have no power on my own to prevent that from happening. Also, there aren’t really that many alternatives left out there. And none that strong.”

She fell silent for a moment before continuing.

“I just… I wish I wasn’t losing my independence, my freedom. And so soon, too…”

“You are aware that you chose to lose them the moment you decided to reclaim Cintra,” he said quietly.

“Of course I’m aware of that,” she shrugged. “Just… Pity.”

“I still think there has to be a different way, one that asks less of you,” he said, his worry evident. 

She smiled at him with reassurance she didn't really feel.

“Your opposition has been noted,” she said, making her tone light. “But as it stands, I don't have any better ideas.”

He looked at her for another while before turning to study the map. 

“Kovir has a share in the Nilfgaardian trade corporations?” he asked, tracing the blue lines, covering half of the North and large sections of the South.

“In most of them; correct. That’s why aligning Cintra with Kovir should protect me; even the empire will think twice before challenging it. And if the next emperor has close ties to the Merchants’ Guild, and that does seem to be the most likely scenario, Cintra should be safe until another coup.”

“And what goal might Tankred see in a union with Cintra?” he asked in a voice she knew all too well; a voice that made his thoughts on the matter perfectly clear – even when he wasn’t _saying_ anything. 

His reaction to her plan surprised her a little, so did his overprotectiveness. He was fully aware how fragile her position was and so his resistance seemed a little irrational to her.

“I dug out a few interesting facts in Emhyr's library; facts that should make for convincing arguments,” she said with a smile. “Kovir has some unexpected links to the empire they might be interested in loosening.” 

She looked back at the map herself, a deep worry she struggled to keep in check settling heavy in her belly again. 

“I just hope… I hope it will all be worth it, worth all the sacrifices; mine and others’…”

“It will be, Swallow,” he told her quietly. “If you don’t let the power corrupt you. If you remain true to yourself. Just please… Look after yourself.”

“Where’s your sarcasm, vampire?” she smiled, trying to get back to the familiar ground of warmth-filled irony.

“It’s waiting for a more appropriate occasion,” the look he gave her was full of reproach.

“I…” she stuttered, waves of emotions threatening to break through her poise. She took his hand. “Thank you, Regis.”

***

“Lioness’ granddaughter, are you?” Meve was studying her with narrowed eyes. It felt very much like an interrogation, but Ciri didn’t let herself be provoked, looking back at the Queen of Lyria coolly. The time spent in Nilfgaard was turning out to be beneficial for many reasons, self-control and a perfect gwent-face being some of the less expected ones.

It took her over half a day to convince the guards, and then the chamberlain, to allow her a private audience. Now that she was in the Queen’s study, an elegant and cozy room adorned in reds, golds and blacks, she wasn’t going to waste this chance.

“I was reliably informed, and twice already, that I should mourn your untimely demise,” Meve continued. “Once, after the Slaughter of Cintra, and the second time when our beloved emperor, may gods look at him kindly, announced a week of mourning after the empress Cirilla died. How many more times do you plan to raise from the dead?“

“As many times at it’s necessary,” Ciri shrugged. “After the Slaughter it was Geralt who found me and hid me. And the fact that the entire North fell for Emhyr’s scheme and took some merchant’s daughter for me… I can hardly be held responsible for that.”

“And how am I to be certain it’s really you this time, and not a puppet, another poor girl form Melitele-knows-where?” Meve asked coldly. “A pawn put on the board by our esteemed mages, no longer ruling these lands? Whose hands are itching to be ruling them once more?” 

“Philippa Eilhart did try to convince me to join them, with the title of a queen granted by their Lodge…” Ciri snorted. “She was gracious enough not to call it a leash.”

The Queen’s eyes lit up.

“And what did you say to that?”

“I became a witcher,” Ciri smiled. “The swamps and sewers seemed more alluring and the corpse-eaters more trustworthy.”

“I would love to see her face,” Meve smirked. “Fine, witcher. Care to tell me what matters have brought you here?”

Ciri looked her in the eyes.

“I think you know well, Your Highness.”

“One cannot question your boldness,” Meve said after a moment of silence, her expression unreadable. “And do you happen to have a plan that’s not a suicide?”

“Ask Kovir for help,” Ciri said calmly. 

Meve fell silent for a moment, frowning in thought.

“Young Tankred would indeed have the means… But he won’t agree. Neutrality has always been Kovir’s utmost priority.”

“I have a few arguments that might convince him.”

“Such as?”

“Dijkstra. And a union with Cintra.”

Meve shook her head with a small chuckle.

“One definitely cannot question your boldness. I have to agree though that Dijkstra’s ambitions do seem worrying.”

“That’s why he needs to be stopped before he conquers the entire North,” Ciri said, trying hard to contain her impatience. “ _And_ the empire needs to be pushed back behind the Marnadal Stairs.”

“And you are the one to do it?” Meve nodded mockingly.

“Not alone,” Ciri didn’t let herself react to the bait. “I will get nothing done alone, the empire will crush me without even noticing. That’s why I need you all on my side: Lyria, Kovir, Skellige…”

“It may still not be enough,” Meve pointed out.

“It may,” Ciri agreed. “But we won’t get another chance like that. The situation in Nilfgaard will calm down within weeks at the most, and Dijkstra will likely solve his internal issues soon as well. Emhyr never told me what scheme he had planted in Redania to keep them distracted in preparation for announcing me his heir, but-“

She broke off noticing Meve’s shocked expression. 

“What do you pay your intelligence services for?” she asked incredulously. “Nobody knows about my parentage? Really?”

Queen of Lyria sat in stunned silence for a moment.

“Did Calanthe know?” she asked slowly, but immediately shook her head. “No, impossible. She couldn’t have known. Cintra’s fate would have looked differently if she had. Although...” Meve fell silent, thinking. “This explains _so_ much.” 

She leaned back in the chair, her eyes never leaving Ciri’s face.

“All right, witcher,” she said slowly. “Let’s assume for a moment I am willing to help you. How do you intend to play this?”

Ciri smiled. This was the part she had rehearsed.

***

Zoltan could not wait to get back to Novigrad. Lyrians were an annoying bunch, the talks that were meant to be nearly over, as his bloody cousins claimed, were taking forever, and didn’t seem like going bloody anywhere. At this point, even the folks from Mahakam he hadn’t seen in years were getting on his nerves. He badly needed a drink, and now. 

Having made up his mind, he turned towards his favourite inn, when he spotted her. He recognized her immediately, even despite the cloak she wore; he had seen enough of her around Novigrad those three years back. He sped up to catch up with her. When she turned into a narrow alley, he followed.

“Where do ye think yer goin’, lass?” he called after her.

He underestimated her. Before he knew what was going on, a blade was pressed firmly to his throat.

“Zoltan!” she exclaimed, relieved. “Don’t do that to me ever again.”

The knife was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Damn it, Ciri,” he massaged his neck. “What are ye doin’ in Lyria?”

“I could ask you the same question,” she pointed out with a smile.

“I’m helpin’ the lads to negotiate new deals with the local guild, may they rot in hell,” he spat out. “And may I rot in hell too, for agreein’ to their stupid plan.”

“Not going too well, eh?” she chuckled.

“Ye may say that. What about you? A witcher contract?”

“Quite the opposite,” she looked to both ends of the lane and dragged him to an abandoned building on the far left. When she was certain they were alone, she turned to him again, suddenly focused and serious.

“Emhyr is dead. And I want to reclaim Cintra.”

“And I’d have sworn I hadn’t a drink today yet,” he shook his head. “There are easier ways out of this god-forsaken world, methinks…”

“I’ve a plan, Zoltan.”

“A plan, aye. A suicidal one?”

“Not if I manage to pull it off,” she shrugged with a smile.

He frowned, looking at her.

“You are serious,” he scratched his beard. “Eh, _duvvelsheyss_. Talk, lassie.”

“Lyria, Kovir and Skellige. If Kovir agrees…” she rubbed her forehead. “Nilfgaard still outnumbers us but they don’t expect anything, which gives us an advantage. I have the Cintrian army on my side,” she gave him another small smile. “No, I don’t plan to challenge the empire all by myself.”

He shook his head again. What she was saying was annoyingly tempting, damn her. He could clearly feel his axe itching for some practice. If there was a chance to pay back the Blacks… 

"Eh, plough it,” he announced, making a quick, spontaneous, and very likely bad decision. “The old fart in Mahakam won’t move his finger, but I can call on a few boys. We’d be in Cintra before the month is up. If you’ll get the help, let us know.”

“And your negotiations?” she asked, surprised. 

“To hell with them. Lyrians weren’t interested anyway. Maybe they’ll be more inspired once we kick the Blacks back behind the mountains.”

“Thank you,” she beamed. “I didn’t expect-“

“Think of it as a payment of debts,” he grinned at her.

“But you don’t owe me a thing, Zoltan?”

“But I owe a few hundred Nilfgaardians an axe in the head. Us, dwarves, treat such debts very seriously.”

“Remind me never to cross you, dwarf.”

“Impossible, lassie,” he shook his head with a chuckle. “Good luck.”

She hugged him.

“Thanks again. Bye, Zoltan.”

***

“Your Highness?”

The chamberlain’s voice rang in the room. Tankred looked up from a trade treaty he had been studying for the last two hours. He was almost grateful for the distraction; his head spun from the wording of the document, made deliberately complicated to hide a number of catches. His advisors highlighted a few, he found a few more, and he had a strong suspicion they all missed at least twice as many.

“Yes, Hillard?”

“Your Majesty may forgive the interruption, but a messenger from Cintra asked for an audience. Urgently.”

“Did they give a name?”

“Ciri of Vengerberg.”

Tankred sighed, trying to quell the irritation. Hillard knew well the private audiences were limited to very special situations, and only a selected few people could hope to be granted them. But the chamberlain possessed an instinct, honed to perfection during the years of service under King Esterad; an instinct that Tankred, after a few years and a few painful lessons, finally learned to trust.

“Show her to the study. I will join her shortly.”

“At once, Your Highness.”

***

When he walked in, he found his guest looking through the window to the Meetings Square. She turned around and it became very clear why Hillard didn’t throw her out. The gaze of hers did not ask or negotiate: it demanded. 

They measured each other for a moment and Tankred realised that the woman had no intention of bowing to him. Intrigued more than offended, he began to connect the clues he had in front of him: her unusual looks, the name she gave the chamberlain, and the conclusion - the only reasonable explanation - gave him a little shock he tried very hard not to show.

Cirilla of Cintra in Pont Vanis.

He gave her a little bow, befitting her birth rank.

“I did not think you were still alive, my lady. I did not have any news of you for a while.”

He noticed a flicker of surprise in her eyes before she lowered her head a little and curtsied.

“I did not think you would recognise me so quickly – or, in fact, at all, Your Highness.”

“If you hadn’t disregarded the protocol, it would have taken me a bit longer,” he smiled.

“My apologies,” she shook her head, smiling back. “I’m not used to the court etiquette anymore.”

“What brings the crownless Queen of Cintra to Kovir?” he gestured for her to sit down at the desk and took a seat opposite her.

“The crownless Queen of Cintra is planning to move the Nilfgaard border back behind the mountains,” her lips curled up in an ugly smile. Brave and unpredictable; he thought. Kordelia wouldn’t like it at all – or she would adore her. It was sometimes - _difficult_ \- to predict his love’s reactions.

“After Emhyr’s death Nilfgaard is in a state of turmoil, but this won’t last long,” Cirilla continued, and he forced his focus back to the issue at hand. “The governor of Cintra is currently busy feeding his paranoia, and so the time to act is now.”

“Kovir, as I’m sure you know, has always been a neutral state,” he smiled at her. “And as such, I’m afraid there isn’t much we can offer. What is it then that you expect of me?”

“A loan,” she answered, her tone sharp, her gaze cutting through his skull. “And mercenaries. Cautious estimates say I have four thousand loyal men, including thirteen hundred in Cintra itself. Nilfgaard has sixteen thousand. I assume that if we capture the capital and convince governor Moenbeck that the presence of both him and the Nilfgaardian army is unnecessary, the fighting could be contained. I really don’t want another slaughter, on either side. I already have too much blood on my hands.”

Tankred suddenly remembered the stories and half-legends he heard about her. Seeing her in flesh, he was ready to believe in most of them.

“Besides,” she smiled again, “I want to be prepared for when Redania decides it’s necessary to start liberating its neighbours again.”

He had to laugh at that.

“It is quite likely.”

“It’s certain,” she corrected him. “Nilfgaard is going to lose Cintra; the only question is, to whom. Dijkstra is powerful and prepared; I’m not.”

He was studying her in silence for a few heartbeats. 

“Why would I help you, my lady?” he asked quietly. “Neutrality has always been an utmost priority for my country. Only neutrality guarantees free trade, and free trade is the state religion of Kovir. Why would I go against my country’s best interest and get involved in your conflict with the empire? What could I possibly gain from this?”

“Except for the generous interest you’d undoubtfully ask for?” her tone grew colder. “As for the country’s best interests… Kovir’s neutrality is a beautiful concept, assuming that Dijkstra shares this vision - and that his ambitions only stretch as far as Braa. Especially since Kovir is Redania’s vassal state, is it not? Neutrality is also easier to maintain if the level of crop in your warehouses isn’t controlled by Nilfgaard, and if you don’t have to rely on the increasingly infrequent shipments to feed your people,” her emerald eyes narrowed a little. “You tell me, Your Highness: what can Kovir gain?”

It took him some effort to control his face, the suspicions he harbored regarding her solidifying in the light of the facts she just threw in his face. After she spent the last three years hunting monsters, there was only one place she could have gained such detailed knowledge on Kovir’s ties to the empire. 

“You know much, my lady,” he said quietly.

A brief, cool smile was her only response.

He was studying her, fully aware that her boldness was partially a pose; aware of just how desperately Cirilla needed allies to strengthen her position, with enemies both to the north and to the south of Cintra’s currently non-existing borders. But watching her, he was equally certain she would never lower herself to suggestions or outright proposals; the next move then belonged to him.

Memories of the day his mother had told him about the plans regarding him and the Cintrian princess flashed in his mind. He had reacted as he would normally have back then: he had thrown a fit, stormed off and had drunk for days. At the time he had considered a marriage to some noble girl, raised for the sole purpose of bearing royal children, to be unbecoming him, the heir to the throne of Kovir; and the thought of any duties that came with the title hadn’t bothered his royal head too much.

Now he knew well that a marriage to secure some alliance or another was in his position only a matter of time. The only thing he could hope for was that the strategically most attractive candidate wouldn’t be a halfwit, or worse – a puppet whose strings would be in the hands of someone with power and influence.

Now, as he was watching Cirilla, who just conjured up a vision of redrawing the borders of the North, who was planning to challenge both Nilfgaard and Redania, who spelled out with painful precision the biggest challenges his country was facing, he suddenly realised how bloody _lucky_ he was. The price for control over the Yaruga estuary and for access to the Cintrian agriculture seemed laughingly low in comparison to the potential future gains. 

There was always a risk that her gamble wouldn’t work, and that by helping her he would expose himself, but based on what he saw, his money was on her. The downside was also that Cirilla didn’t seem to be a person he would have any sort of control over – but then again, neither would anyone else. She did seem quite reasonable though, so if they played it right, it might have been a beginning of a mutually beneficial cooperation. 

The fact that, on top of everything else, she was a beautiful woman, didn’t hurt her cause in the slightest.

“Long ago, when you, my lady, were prey, hunted by the entire North and half of the South, and I was an imbecile of a teenager, doused with fisstech, the higher forces in the shape of the Lodge of Sorceresses were scheming to marry us,” he said, watching closely for any reaction, but her expression did not change. “You would honour me greatly if you were willing to consider such a proposition, only this time without the external interference.”

She was silent for another moment, her eyes fixed on his.

“I thank you for the most generous proposal, Your Highness, and I will give it the full consideration it deserves,” she replied formally. “However, please allow me to reclaim my name and my country first, before I make decisions on that country’s future.”

He nodded. 

“Leave the loan to me. It will take me a few days to arrange it though. As for the mercenaries…” he got up and walked over to the wall, where a hidden mechanism replaced his father’s favourite battle painting, which he personally always considered kitch, with a detailed map of the North.

“Adieu’s Free Company, some four thousand strong, is stationed near Brugge. I can send them over the Yaruga at a moment’s notice. I can send further reinforcements by sea but that would take up to two weeks.”

She got up and walked over to the map.

“Two weeks is too late for the uprising itself,” she said slowly, studying it from up close. “But if my plan works I will need men to secure both borders, to not let anyone take advantage of our exposed position.”

“Too late?” he asked, frowning. “Forgive me, my lady, but returning to Cintra will take you a week at least - unless you have a mage cooperating with you that I don't know of?”

“I don’t,” she smiled. “The sources you have allocated to watching my moves, whomever they might be, are correct in this regard. What I do have though are a few rare cards up my sleeve, ones I hope my enemies are underestimating.”

He was studying her, trying to figure out what she could possibly have meant, but he quickly gave up and simply nodded.

“Very well. In this case, I may be able to gather an even bigger force. I shall send orders at once. Whom should my agent contact?”

“Damian Longruff. He’s a captain of one of the Cintrian companies,” she fell silent, calculating. “Please have the Free Company march out in three days’ time.”

He nodded.

“What is your plan, my lady?”

“I’m heading directly to Skellige now. The list of my friends is short,” her smile was bitter. “Queen Meve agreed to send a thousand of their cavalry and five hundred Lyrian crossbowmen. This, together with the Cintrian forces and the Free Company should be enough to secure the northern border. It has to be. I want to take control over the city and force the imperial governor to cooperate. With the current balance of power, that’s my only chance. We also need to do this before the situation in Nilfgaard calms down, and a new governor or new orders arrive. And we need to be quicker than Dijkstra…”

“I’m not stopping you so,” he bowed lightly. “Good luck. I’ll be impatiently waiting for the news of your success.”

She shot him a quick glance, but the curtsy she gave him was little deeper this time, he noticed. He turned to leave when her voice stopped him.

“Your Highness-”

“Yes?” he half turned to look at her.

“Not a word to the mages, if you can. Dijkstra helped to organize their escape from Novigrad. I don’t know,” she grimaced, “and frankly, don’t want to test where their allegiances lay.”

“I can’t promise anything,” he said with a sour smile. “I haven’t fully tested their allegiances myself yet. I should be able to leave some false trails though, in case my steps are being watched. But, my lady…?”

“Yes?”

“I thought the sorceresses are on your side?”

“Only some; and only as individuals,” she smiled an ugly smile again. “And I would very much like the other players to learn about my actions only once it’s too late for an appropriate countermove.”

***

“Eleven thousand,” Torren handed him the reports. “Three thousand from Maribor and the Velen garrisons and five thousand from Gors Velen. They may be ready to march in three days. They should reach Cintra in fifteen days, give or take.”

Dijkstra nodded.

“What forces are stationed at the Yaruga border?” 

“Some twelve thousand Nilfgaardians and three thousand Blues.”

“The Blue Brigades?” Dijkstra smiled. “Finally some ploughing good news. Marshall Vissegerd has very controversial opinions about Calanthe’s line; this will be most interesting.”

He dismissed Torren and prepared and signed the orders. Then he sent for the messenger and once the boy disappeared, carrying the messages, there was nothing left to do but wait. 

He poured himself a drink and analysed his situation yet again. He was fully aware that sending a sixth of his army to Cintra was a major risk, but he was left without a choice in the matter. He had to react not to wake up in an even deeper shit, with a new queen south of Yaruga. 

He did have some delicate means to convince her to swear fealty to Redania, in case she was somehow both quicker _and_ successful, but better safe than sorry. Fucking Elder Blood; the granddaughter of that she-devil Calanthe – and Emhyr’s spawn. It all spelled bad news.

He looked at the map again. This was really the worst possible moment to spread his forces thin and get involved in yet another conflict. 

The question was, was it a coincidence?

The guerillas in Temeria have always been a royal pain in the hole, nothing had changed there. After the death of Roche and Thaler, the rebels split up into smaller fractions, but lost none of the viciousness. And they showed no signs of giving up; on the contrary even - and that despite the years that had passed. Temeria then seemed to be an independent problem, that needed no external help – except for funding, but he never managed to prove the empire’s involvement there.

The Council on the other hand…

After the fuckhead Radovid’s death, the Redanian aristocracy joyfully welcomed the return to normality, the lack of pyres for mages or non-humans, and a voice of reason at the helm. At least at the beginning. After declaring himself a chancellor, he was initially greeted with open arms. He was fully aware this was temporary and that there was no bloody way this could have lasted for long.

And true enough, the honeymoon ended only a few months later. Initially the Council and their complaints were but an irritating noise on the peripheral of his focus. Their incompetence had always been annoying, but it had only been a few weeks since those noble morons began to be more organized and successful at sabotaging his plans; a little over a month since they had become an actual problem.

He read the message about Emhyr’s death again and took a sip of his drink, thinking.

Seven weeks ago the NiIfgaardian unit was fruitlessly looking for Cirilla in Maribor, which suggested the emperor didn’t abandon his plans for her. Did he know about the scheming that was brewing around him? He must have; Dijkstra couldn’t imagine Emhyr having missed something like this. Only the scale of the treason might have caught him by surprise, and even that was hard to believe, despite a solid proof he held in his hand.

It was safe to assume the emperor wanted to put his daughter on the throne, or at the very least announce her his heir, before his enemies made their move. And while preparing for that, would it not have been fucking _prudent_ to make sure Redania was busy elsewhere?

He got up, massaging his tired neck, and walked over to the map to stare at Cintra from up close, as if by the force of his will alone he could somehow slow down whatever events the Lion Cub might have already put in motion.

***

“Your Highness,” Ciri bowed officially, not missing a flicker of surprise on Cerys’ face.

The Queen of Skellige waved at the two men standing guard on both sides of the large throne, carved out of a single piece of what once was a magnificent oak.

“Bjorn, Vikki, leave us,” she waited for them to disappear, then turned to her. “Ciri, you goof. Come here.”

She had to quell a smile. She would love nothing more than to accept the invitation and allow herself to forget all that brought her here, even for a brief moment, but she just - couldn't.

“Cerys, I have-“

“An important case to present to the Queen of Skellige, aye,” Cerys interrupted her unceremoniously. “It can wait an hour.”

“You haven't changed a bit,” Ciri shook her head, laughing; it was so damn _refreshing_ to be here.

“Except that I have the authority now,” Cerys smirked at her. “What are you waitin' for? A written invitation?”

“You're mad.”

“Look who's talkin'-” the queen broke off, and narrowed her eyes a little. “-Your Highness.”

That caught Ciri off guard. 

“How do you know…“

Cerys studied her for a moment, then chuckled softly.

“Do you take me for stupid? You're showin' up in Kaer Trolde days after the emperor's death - and with all the ceremony and protocol you cared nothing for in the past? What _else_ could it be about? I agree. There; that’s an hour you just saved. C’mon, I had the baths prepared. You can fill me in on the details later.”

Outmaneuvered, Ciri simply kept looking at her, while hundred different thoughts and opposing urges fought for dominance in her mind. Finally, under that mischievous amber stare, she gave up.

“You know how to convince me.”

“Aye?” Cerys shot her a brilliant smile, one that made Ciri’s heart beat just a little faster. “And here I was, thinkin' my charm was enough.”

Ciri walked over to her, giving in to the need she was trying hard to ignore up till now. She cupped Cerys’ face in her hands and kissed her with all the passion that was burning within her.

“Always, Sparrowhawk,” she whispered against her lips.

“That's much better,” Cerys smiled at her, reaching out and removing the string and the clip holding Ciri's hair. It flowed down, obscuring both their faces and Cerys weaved her fingers through it. Ciri closed her eyes and relished in the touch as Cerys pulled her closer, her breath on Ciri's skin as soft and warm as the whisper that followed. 

“Been too long, bird.”

***

Cerys’ arm was wrapped around her waist; gentle fingers trailing the edges of her various scars. Ciri allowed herself to relax, to melt into the safety of the known, the reliable. Cerys, as if sensing her mood, tightened the embrace.

Ciri took her lover’s hand, intertwining their fingers.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Sure it wasn’t easy to convince you,” Cerys’ voice carried the notes of deep satisfaction.

Ciri turned to face her.

“I just can’t shake the feeling it’s already too late,” she replied with a sigh. “I feel like I’m out of time.”

“It’s only been a little over a week, bird,” Cerys said softly. “You’re doin’ the impossible here. Nobody else has your abilities.”

“No, but they have mages,” Ciri pointed out.

“Dijkstra doesn’t,” Cerys smirked. “And the empire doesn’t expect anythin’ that mad. And you,” she poked her finger into Ciri’s chest, “you need some bloody _rest_. I got exhausted just listenin’ to you.”

“Rest is not something I can afford,” Ciri shook her head, but couldn’t quite manage to suppress a smile. “A short break, though…”

“See, now you’re talkin’ sense,” Cerys’ amber eyes softened. “First lesson in being a queen: catch moments like these, bird; they’re too rare.”

Ciri leaned in and kissed her, savouring the feel of her: a short, sweet kiss; a confirmation, a reassurance. Then she rested her head on Cerys’ outstretched arm, studying her features, so familiar after all the years. 

They had known each other since childhood, wreaking havoc around the island as kids; but they only reunited two years ago, when a witcher contract brought Ciri to Kaer Trolde. She remembered how the sight of her friend as the fearless Skellige queen took her breath away. She couldn’t remember who made the first move, but she remembered what followed, and vividly.

They saw each other only a handful of times since – and under the circumstances that was extremely unlikely to change – but Ciri was still deeply grateful for having the fierce redhead by her side, even if only for brief moments.

She followed a trail of freckles on Cerys’s cheek with her finger.

“Tell me, how many hopeless men do you have pursuing you?” she grinned at her.

“Pursuin’ me?” Cerys repeated with a chuckle. “One or two. Pursuin’ the queen of Skellige? Two dozen. Get used to that, too. Another lesson.”

“This one I won’t need,” Ciri rolled onto her back with a sigh and stared at the elaborately carved ceiling. “I will agree to marry Tankred.”

“Aye, as you should,” Cerys touched her face gently. “It’s a good, strong alliance. And he’s sure easy on the eyes, from what I’ve been hearin’…”

“You’re impossible,” Ciri laughed, shaking her head, but the seriousness of the situation chased away the merriment and she scowled at the carvings that were looking down at her impassively. “He might be, but I still don’t _like_ it.”

“Hardly anyone does, bird,” Cerys retorted. “But marriages rarely stopped folk from pursuin’ what - or whom - they wanted.” 

“You’re the one to talk, you yourself haven’t got married.” Ciri protested, turning back to her.

“But I will, and soon; likely before the year is up, or the talkin’ will start. In Skellige talkin’ often involves axes; and then before I know it, I’ll have a bloody rebellion on my hands,” Cerys brushed away a stray strand of hair from Ciri’s face. “And knowin’ you, the only thing that will stop _you_ from doin’ whatever the hell you want, is your own sense of what’s right.”

Ciri didn’t realise she was still tense until Cerys’ last words loosened another knot in her belly, if only by a fraction. As Cerys kissed her, with an impatience and hunger that Ciri’s body responded to immediately, she realised her lover might have had a point. The decisions she made in the recent weeks meant her life as she knew it would soon be over - but her life as a whole didn’t need to be; all she had to do was to figure out some way to make this whole mess work.

Cerys broke the kiss.

“I can hear you thinkin’, bird,” she murmured into Ciri’s ear, her lips barely touching it, causing her to shiver. “Come back.”

Ciri smiled at her, her fingers brushing Cerys’s scarred cheek. 

“I’m here, Sparrowhawk.”

***

Damian found the side lane Alvar had described to him with no difficulty. He ran up the stairs and stormed into the room, too agitated to remember to knock. He was expecting to find Cirilla there, but instead the cool, if a little surprised, gaze of the barber-surgeon greeted him from above the book the man was reading. 

“Her Highness…?” Damian asked, a little uncomfortable under the - surgical - examination the man gave him.

“Ciri is in Pont Vanis, or on Ard Skellig,” Regis put down the book and gave him a mocking smile. “I will do you a favour and not pass on how you addressed her.”

“I can imagine her reaction,” Damian shook his head, smiling in response. “I’ve good news; at least potentially. The Blues are stationed in four out of the eleven border garrisons.”

Regis’s only reaction was a raised eyebrow, and Damian huffed impatiently. 

“They are the Cintrian brigades that took refuge in Temeria during the Second Northern War,” he explained. “They fought under the Temerian banner until they accepted the amnesty terms and came back to Cintra after the imperial wedding. They’re fiercely loyal – if only Cirilla can convince them…”

“That does sound promising,” the barber-surgeon nodded. “I’ll let Ciri know as soon as she’s back-” he raised his head as if listening, “or you can tell her yourself.” 

The air in the room cracked, and with a flash of green light the image of the fireplace shattered and reassembled again, with Cirilla standing right in front of him.

“Damian?” she said, surprised. “What brings you here?”

“In a moment,” Regis cut in. Damian glared at him, but Cirilla merely smiled. “First, tell us your news.”

“Cerys will send some eleven-hundred Skellige warriors. They should be here in five days. The Free Company stations outside Brugge, they will move in three days’ time. Further reinforcements should arrive in a fortnight.”

“Congratulations,” Regis smiled. “And the rest?”

“As expected,” she shrugged. “But I haven’t given a definite answer yet.”

Damian watched them both, trying to figure out whatever it was that he was missing, when Cirilla turned to him.

“What did you find out?”

“We might potentially have an ally at the northern border, my lady,” he told her. “Only they would need some persuasion to join us.”

She frowned at him.

“And that may be a problem?”

“It may,” he sighed. “These are the Cintrian refugee companies that deserted and fought in Temeria until the emperor announced the amnesty on an occasion of his wedding. They accepted it and came back to serve the rightful Queen of Cintra. They’re fanatic patriots, led by Marshall Vissegerd. They mourned your death twice already, and they served Nilfgaard in your name. They may not take kindly to the idea they were deceived.”

Her eyes narrowed a little.

“Vissegerd? My grandmother’s Marshall?”

“Him indeed.”

“Do we have anyone we trust there?”

“Ebo’s friend serves in one of the companies.”

“Excellent. Let’s go there as soon as Ebo is able to accompany us,” she thought for a moment, then turned to Regis. “Would you care to accompany us? Something tells me I might need you there.”

***

_“Cirilla took upon herself the negotiations with queen Meve, king Tankred and Cerys an Craite, therefore all we know about them are their results: the famous Lyrian crossbowmen and their cavalry, fifteen hundred men strong; Adieu’s Free Company and a dozen of Skellige drakkars coming together to fight for our freedom._

_Despite all the support the Queen managed to get, however, the question of securing the border still remained; four thousand mercenaries, legendary as they were, were no match against the Nilfgaardian forces._

_Fortunately for us all, it turned out the esteemed Blue Brigades’ forces were concentrated in the third of the border garrisons. As the news about Cirilla’s return spread, their leader, Marshall Vissegerd, immediately declared all the help and ordered the full combat readiness.”_

***

“What is this supposed to mean?” Vissegerd barked, his face a deep shade of purple.

“Don’t you recognise me, Marshall?” Ciri asked coldly. “Because I remember you well. In fact, wasn’t that you who convinced Queen Calanthe to send my parents and me away to Skellige shortly after I was born?”

“Impossible,” Vissegerd growled, reddening even more, though that had seemed impossible to Regis just a moment ago. “It’s some fucking joke! Or a conspiracy! Who sent you? _Speak_!”

“With all due respect, Marshall,” she spat back, her tone, the vampire noted with a quiet bemusement, a direct contradiction to her words. “Nobody _sent_ me. I do realise you had been lied to, and twice; first when it was announced that I died in the Slaughter, and then again when Emhyr, fully aware he was betrayed and was brought an impostor, threw that scheme back in everyone’s faces by marrying the girl and putting her on Cintra’s throne. It is regrettable that you were tricked into accepting the Nilfgaardian amnesty, it’s regrettable that your patriotism and love for the country had been used-“

“Patriotism!” Vissegerd exploded. “Love for the country! The Queen of Cintra returned to claim the throne and we followed! As one ought to! Because we, unlike the Queen, _Melitele bless her memory_ , knew what was the right thing to do! Even at a cost of life, or honour! But how can one expect honourable acts from a child of defiled blood and a leper!”

Regis saw – and felt – Ciri’s cold fury and wondered if he should intervene, and when. He decided to hold off for another while and observe the unfolding of the events. After all, his task was not to undermine her, and so far, she seemed to have the confrontation under control; the grip might have been shaky and her control filled with rage, but it was control nonetheless. He had a quiet feeling his presence might not have been necessary after all.

“A child of _whom_?” Ciri hissed, forcing his focus back to the present.

“You heard me,” Vissegerd snarled. “Emhyr’s puppet who betrayed her own country to save her neck! A bastard who never should have sat on the throne!”

“And on this we can agree,” she spat back. “But I would choose the words more carefully if I were you. You’re offending the emperor whom you swore fealty to!”

“What?” he breathed.

“My parents were Pavetta of Cintra and Emhyr var Emreis,” she snapped. “You owe me your allegiance no matter how you choose to look at this!”

Vissegerd took a step back at that, as if slapped, but Ciri gave him no chance at all to gather thoughts.

“But that's a discussion we don’t have time for now,” she made a visible effort to calm down. “Redanian army is marching for Cintra as we speak. We have to act _now_.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Dijkstra wants to take control over Cintra; we _have_ to move first. In three days an uprising will begin in the capital,” she paused for the briefest of moments, measuring the Marshall. “Will you choose to help me or stand in my way?”

“How _dare_ you,” Vissegerd was nearly breathless. “Who are you to dare to decide on Cintra’s future? What gives you the right?!”

“You _know_ who I am, Marshall. I have every right - and I also happen to have a chance to reclaim the country-“

“A chance!” he spat.

“A chance,” she repeated coldly. “Free Company, four thousand men strong, together with Lyrian forces, should reach the border in three days. You can join me, in which case I _may_ forget what I heard here, or you can stand with Nilfgaard,” she broke off for a moment, and when she continued, her tone was full of venom. “But if you chose to stay loyal to the empire, I’d advise you to pray to your chosen gods for my defeat, and pray hard. For if I succeed… I will find you, Vissegerd. And I _will_ make you pay for your words.”

The Marshall was stunned into silence for once, breathing deeply, his face changing colours again. It made for a sight that would have been comical had their situation not been so grave. 

Regis couldn’t help but feel a deep satisfaction, mixed with a generous dose of pride. He had always suspected Ciri would not be one to be intimidated easily - she was raised by Geralt and Yennefer after all - but now he saw not only a proof, but more importantly, an indication of a shape of things to come. If Ciri still needed anything at all, it wasn’t support; not anymore.

He decided to take advantage of the fact that neither of the adversaries were currently shouting, and finally join the conversation, mostly to re-emphasize a few issues of a more delicate nature.

“I wonder, Marshall, how you are planning to order your Cintrian battalions _not_ to join the Free Company, once its mercenaries are here, fighting for Cintra’s liberation.”

Vissegerd looked at him, as if he only just remembered Regis was there at all. His eyes were narrowed, furious.

“It is still _my_ army,” he hissed, his words a barely veiled threat.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” the vampire said with a small smile. “Each and every soldier you command dreams – or more accurately, doesn’t _dare_ to dream – of a free Cintra. Ever since they accepted the Nilfgaardian amnesty, all of them have been hopelessly waiting for a chance to redeem themselves, to reclaim their honour. When the events give them a chance to do just that, they might not necessarily appreciate the orders to stand down…”

“You have three days, Vissegerd,” Ciri cut in. “Three days to decide what side you’re on _this time._ ”

***

“He really doesn’t believe me, does he.”

“He is terrified you may be telling the truth.”

“His words about defiled blood… Does he really hate me so much?”

“You. The world. The circumstances. Most of all, himself.”

“ _Damn_. I was hoping he might be convinced… Now I just hope he at least refrains from fighting against the Free Company. Back to the plan of taking over the capital then.”

***

_“Once the preparations were over, the war councils began, with Cirilla snatching Damian and Fabian away to endless meetings and secret talks with the leaders of all strike forces. It has been decided that the harbour was going to be the first target of the Skellige forces._

_The Free Company was due to cross the Yaruga at dawn the next day, engaging the Nilfgaardian regiments, and splitting into two groups: one marching east to meet the Lyrian reinforcements, the other moving towards the capital._

_Eventually, the plan was drawn, the pieces were set on the board, and the only thing left for us all in Cintra, was to wait: for Skellige drakkars, for signal, for the blow to fall. Three days that felt like an eternity; an eternity filled with silence, doubts, dread._

_And, above all else – with hope.”_

***

“Ciri?”

She turned around to face him; everything about her rigid, strained.

“Silence before the storm,” she whispered. “The Skellige drakkars will be here any minute now. This is happening. This is really happening.” She took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to release some of the tension, without much success. 

“Swallow,” he took her hands. “Trust yourself. You will manage just fine.”

“How can you be so sure, vampire?” she shook her head, avoiding his gaze. “How can you be sure that this isn’t a hopeless endeavor; that I am not simply bringing death to everyone who follows me, like so many times before?”

That was an excellent question, he mused; all her doubts and concerns as clear for him in her mind as they were in her frown, in her lips pressed in a thin line. 

How was he so sure?

He felt his fear for her back in full force: the fear that she would stumble, that she would lose this gamble of hers, would – _die_ – and that he wouldn’t be able to do a single thing to stop it from happening. A flame; so brilliant, so bright, so fragile; one he came to care for so deeply in that short span of time they spent together. 

One he was ready to do everything that was in his power to shield from the coming gale. 

And yet, somewhere deep inside, he had a persistent thought she might not _need_ shielding; a quiet conviction she might succeed despite the odds. He couldn't really tell where that faith in her, her instinct, and her abilities were coming from; how he could be confident that she wouldn’t pay the highest possible price for this dream of hers - a dream he was actively helping her to chase.

He was studying her quietly for a longer moment until she raised her head and met his eyes again. 

A Child of the Elder Blood. A witcher. The heiress to the throne of Nilfgaard. Lady of Space and Time. The Queen of Cintra. She was so many things to so many people. 

And him? Who was she to him exactly, this stubborn, daring, compassionate, ruthless yet vulnerable specimen of humanity; humanity with its courage and curiosity that made it always push forward, restless and never satisfied; that made it strive to conquer the unseen, claim the unknown, achieve the impossible?

“I could say it’s your destiny. I could say that this is what your blood demands,” he said slowly, watching as Ciri’s lips twisted in an ugly grimace. “But that is but a fraction of the picture. All your choices, the trials you faced, your victories and defeats, they all brought you here and gave you the tools to do what needs to be done. To do what you know is right,” he smiled at her. "Besides, I simply believe in you, Swallow.”

She shook her head and threw her arms around him. 

“Thank you,” she muttered into his vest. “You don’t even know…” he felt her smiling, “…or maybe you do.”

He held her tight; around them the last of the calm and quiet moments swirled. With her face hidden in his chest, and his hands on her back, the memories of the night of her nightmare came back to him; the night that felt like - that _was_ , to him - yesterday. And yet in that blink of an eye, so much had changed. 

He felt her relaxing, softening in his embrace, her thoughts losing the strained edge; but she wasn’t looking to break their contact, the intimacy of the moment, and neither was he. He simply held her, offering whatever comfort and strength he could.

Suddenly, the bell on the harbour tower rang, striking midnight, and he almost flinched. Ciri took a step back, her recent doubts and fears replaced by a quiet, focused determination. He held her hands for a brief moment.

“Go, Swallow. I will be close should you need me.”

She nodded and without another word she disappeared in a flash of green light.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Next to him, beside a body of a Nilfgaardian soldier, she spotted a discarded helmet, lying in a pool of blood: a black helmet, its large wings of a bird of prey broken and molten from the heat - and the reality she was struggling to cling to ever since the first alarm had rung slipped from her fingers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And again, tears were shed and hair was pulled out, and again these two were a guiding light with their advice and patience for fixing my grammar and my commas. Thank you always, [Sparrow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sparrows_fall) and [Kael](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale).

> “They came at night, quiet and deadly. None of the famous war yell to announce their arrival, to put fear in the hearts of their enemies, as was the tradition.
> 
> They came in silence, and they brought death. 
> 
> But to all of us, the shapes of the Skelliger longboats on the waters of Cintra harbour meant only one thing - hope.” 
> 
> Alar Lacroix, “Azure Uprising - a memoir” 

  
  


***

Fabian had been too young to fight in the Slaughter; his family had escaped the city right after the war broke, which was likely the only reason they all survived. 

Now he thought he had an idea what it had looked like.

The lower city was a hell.

They were crawling through the narrow, cobbled streets - so lively and colourful barely a day before, now filled with screams and the clash of swords and death - and each small step forward was paid for with blood. 

He had no idea if they were gaining an advantage at all - his instinct told him no, but despair led to nowhere, so he forced himself to focus - to hope. But with the losses they suffered that was getting damn near impossible - and the more bodies of the common folk their decimated battalion stumbled upon, the heavier his heart got.

He heard - somehow, from someone, he couldn’t remember - that the harbour was taken. He hoped with each fiber of his being it was true. He hoped others fared better than them. For if not…

There was a sudden commotion that caught his attention and chased away the stray thoughts. 

A fresh Nilfgaardian unit appeared at the end of the street they were currently moving along, engaging his soldiers. Fabian screamed orders and rushed ahead. There were no ways out from that particular spot; they had to cut their way through, they could not allow the Blacks to trap them here. 

He threw himself right into the middle of the cluster of swords and shields, his sword drawn, but fighting in such a tight spot was nearly impossible; barely any space to swing a weapon, to deflect; and with numbers working against them this was starting to look desperate. 

But still, they had to move forward. To get out of here.

They simply had to.

He half turned to shout the orders- 

He never even saw the soldier who delivered the blow; he didn’t even feel the sword cutting through his flesh.

What he felt was cold. And a strange calm. 

It was quiet, too - why was it quiet, if the battle wasn’t over?

Or was it?

He hoped they were winning. 

  


***

_“Once the Skelliger dakkars entered the harbour and the islanders attacked, Cirilla appeared in the barracks to lead the main strike force; their aim to capture the palace itself._

_Of the other two attack groups, one - led by Commander Ailing - was attempting to control the city, while the other - under the command of Captain Simmons - attacked the main Nilfgaardian garrison._

_The Skellige forces had the element of surprise and initially gained an advantage, but the Nilfgaardians quickly called for reinforcements. Their emptied garrisons were easily captured, but bolstered troops in the lower city turned the skirmish there in Nilfgaard's favor._

_On the narrow streets the fighting was difficult and each small victory was heavily paid for. Outnumbered, focused on protecting the civilians, the Cintrian forces were at a serious disadvantage, with the Nilfgaardians causing as much damage as possible._

_Our casualties were the worst there: we lost well over a half of captain Ailing’s battalion, and the captain himself was gravely wounded, before any reinforcements could arrive._

_Help was scarce, but it was coming from the most unexpected directions.”_

  


***

“For the queen! Cut the fuckers!”

“For Ciri!!”

A relatively small dwarven group managed to cause a disproportionately large devastation in the main garrison before the Cintrian unit managed to cut through to them.

“Prisoners!!” Ebo screamed at the top of his lungs, trying to get his voice to carry over the ruckus of the battle. “Take prisoners!!”

It took another while to get some order back in place of the chaos that the imperial barracks had turned into, but eventually Ebo came face to face with two dwarves, seemingly in charge of their small commando. 

The older, bald one, had an ugly looking wound on his left shoulder and wielded an even uglier looking axe.

“The situation seems under control,” the younger one with short, spiky hair spat onto the ground. 

“That seems to be an understatement,” Ebo said, throwing the garrison a sweeping glance. The place looked as if it was hit by a particularly vicious storm. He focused back on the dwarves. “Mahakam reinforcements?”

“Mahakam caen me a'baeth aep arse,” the older one announced, proving his fluency in languages, and put the axe into the sling on his back. “Private initiative. What’s the situation?”

“We took the harbour but there’s still heavy fighting in the lower city and near the palace,” Ebo said.

“To the palace then!” the younger one announced and the entire commando immediately reorganised itself and set off. 

Ebo swore, barked the orders, grabbed the closest few soldiers and followed them.

  


***

“Your Majesty, an urgent message from Cintra.”

Morvran Voorhis took the letter from the messenger and gestured to his aide.

“Get me general aep Aeillach.”

The soon-to-be-crowned emperor of Nilfgaard read the brief report twice by the time the general arrived.

“Another rebellion in Cintra,” Voorhis handed him the report. “Looks to be the most serious to date. I trust the governor will follow the appropriate procedures for such occasion?”

“Without a doubt, Your Imperial Majesty,” the general bowed with a grim smile. “Governor Moenbeck has been waiting for such an opportunity for a long time: an excuse to quell any lingering rebellious element once and for all, to crush the perpetrators and their supporters both. A message needs to be sent about the price to pay for standing up against the Empire.” The man hesitated a little. “If I may… Under the circumstances, the governor is likely to be especially thorough, to prove his loyalty to Your Majesty...”

“Thorough?” Voorhis repeated with a smile. “Var Laundan’s response protocol? Excellent. Inform me once the Cintrian problem is resolved.”

  


***

_“Initially, we all tried to keep Cirilla out of harm’s way, to protect her as much as we could. It quickly turned out to be a completely futile endeavor. Not only was it utterly impossible to stop her from jumping right into the middle of fighting, but she also proved to be remarkably skilled with a sword. Indeed, the stories about her witcher training were not exaggerated._

_Once we had captured the garrison and the harbour, it seemed as if we were gaining an advantage, with the Nifgaardians in apparent retreat._

_It was then, when we dared to believe fortune had smiled upon us, that it became clear the Imperial army’s retreat was a strategic one; part of a plan so horrific and cruel we did not predict it, and thus were not prepared for it.”_

  


***

The fighting was heavy near the palace gates, but they were - winning? The Blacks still fought, but the numbers for once were on their side. The dwarves threw themselves right into the cluster of swords, cutting and chopping. Ebo held back, looking around at the chaos, trying to assess the situation - which was when he saw her.

Cirilla was locked in a deathly duel with four Nilfgaardian soldiers, her blade a blur in the faint light of the dawn. He wasn’t the only one who spotted her.

“Zoltan!” he heard the bald dwarf scream. “To the gate! To Ciri!”

But she didn’t need help. She cut down the first opponent, danced around the second, cutting him across the chest, and, using him as a human shield, split the third one’s guts - all within the space of time it took Ebo to get his breath back to scream.

The fourth soldier dropped to his knees, but he didn’t to live to see the amnesty - struck by a small axe thrown by one of the charging dwarves, he fell to the ground.

Ebo watched as Cirilla wiped her forehead leaving bloody smears; he saw her turning around and taking in the losses. It was nearly over - the arrival of the dwarven commando was the last push needed to force the imperial army back.

The dwarves got to Cirilla and, unsure what to do, bowed. She laughed and hugged them both.

“Zoltan! And Yarpen? This can’t be!”

“Eh, goose,” he heard the elder say in an altered tone. “Eh, Ciri… Who would’ve thought, back then, on the road… Who would’ve thought…”

“Nice chopping, lassie,” the other nodded. “Nice work indeed. So, what now?”

“Now…” Cirilla looked around again. “Now we’re looking for the governor. It’s far from being over yet. Damian? Ebo?”

  


***

The palace courtyard was eerily quiet. The first shy sun rays penetrated the low hanging clouds and filled the space with a strange, dimmed light. The slim towers against the grey sky, the bodies of the fallen, the rest of the army regrouping at the gate, getting ready to follow - it all seemed surreal.

The three of them walked towards the palace, their steps loud in the dreamlike silence.

“I don’t like this,” Damian murmured. 

“Keep your eyes open,” Cirilla barked, her voice heavy with tension.

Ebo expected anything: a trap, a wave of arrows coming down at them at any moment, a barricade outside the palace - _anything_. Anything but an empty courtyard and an abandoned building, its heavy mahogany doors wide open, with no guards, no defence.

They entered the main hall, looking around warily, the swords ready, but their only company was an echo of their steps. Where a full battalion should have been, an entire defence of the castle mounted, not a single soul was left. They stopped, bewildered, and Ebo felt an vague dread creeping up his spine and gripping at his throat. 

It was then that the bells rang in the distance, a forlorn cry of alarm.

Damian swore and ran back outside.

“What is happening?” Cirilla spat.

Ebo listened to the alarm sequence, his dread solidifying into a horrific shape.

“Fire,” he said through clenched teeth. 

He broke off, seeing Cirilla’s face changing, contracting, her eyes losing focus. She stumbled, turning pale as the death itself.

“My lady…?” he asked, but got no reaction. He hesitated for a moment, but decided to risk it - there was no time - and put his hand on her shoulder. Still nothing. “Your High…” he changed his mind mid-word. “Ciri?” he said quietly.

This seemed to have gotten to her: she flinched, rubbed her face and looked at him.

“My lady, are you alright?”

She took a deep breath.

“It’s nothing. Just… A nightmare,” she murmured, still shaken, but making an effort to regain composure. “Do we know where this is coming from?”

“Let me try to find out,” he said and rushed to join Damian.

  


***

Ciri looked around the empty chamber, a thousand terrified thoughts swirling in her mind, and did the only thing she could think of.

“ _Regis_...?”

“I’m here, Ciri,” he materialised beside her. 

She grabbed his hand, dread nearly choking her.

“Establish the source of the fire, _please_. And find the governor, if you can.”

“At once.”

  


***

“It’s most likely in the harbour area,” Ebo said when Cirilla joined them in the courtyard. “Or at least, that’s where the alarm was raised.”

“We must stop this at all cost,” she said in a strained voice. “Gather your men at once.”

Damian was already at the palace gates, shouting orders. The eldest dwarf ran towards her.

“Ciri, what’s happenin’?”

“They’re trying to burn the city down,” she growled. “Like… Like _then_. During the Slaughter.”

“Duvelsheyss,” the dwarf spat on the ground. “We will get them, Ciri. We won’t let them-”

“We won’t,” Regis’ voice cut in unexpectedly from behind them.

Cirilla spun around.

“The Old Market,” he told her. “The governor, and the fire both. But there could be more sources.”

“The warehouses,” Ebo snarled. “Them _whoresons_ …” 

The Nilfgaardians’ plan was suddenly so obvious - and so unimaginably terrifying. The market area was full of Guilds’ storage houses, filled with every flammable type of goods one could imagine. If they didn’t stop it quickly enough…

“Move at once,” Cirilla shouted over her shoulder, suddenly focused and deadly calm. “Send reinforcements to the Southern Gate. Keep your eyes open and react immediately if you notice any other sources of fire. _This cannot happen again_.”

“And you, my lady?” Ebo asked.

Instead of replying, she took Regis’ hand and pressed her forehead against his.

“Lead the way,” she said and they disappeared in a flash of green light.

  


***

It took her only a few seconds to get some grasp of the situation. Ebo’s guess was right: the Nilfgaardians did set one of the warehouses on fire - and it was already threatening the neighbouring buildings. 

Moenbeck, the imperial governor of Cintra, was still there like Regis had said: overlooking the delivery of the final blow to the city. The very sight of him made her seethe with rage.

He was flanked by a group of some fifty soldiers, their group now making their move towards the nearby Harbour Gate, clearly withdrawing. 

Over her dead body.

She jumped right into the middle of their group, her sword flashing with merciless precision. Their initial surprise gave her the edge she needed - four fell before they realised what was happening. 

But they quickly regrouped, protecting the governor as she dashed past them, seemingly in three places at once. 

The maze of time and space stood open before her, and she stepped in and out of it, moving between different points of reality, her sword delivering justice - or was it revenge? - drawing blood, bringing death. 

Her world narrowed down to the cold of the void, the feel of her blade in her grip, and her heartbeat pulsing in her ears as she switched dimensions. Despite the adrenaline, she felt strangely detached, calm. Focused.

She slew another few soldiers in a quick sequence of precise jumps and pirouettes, dividing their group into three smaller ones - but it was still slow, too slow. There were just so _many_ of them - and why was nobody doing anything about the fire? 

She risked a glance around and realised how little time had actually passed; but that time was enough for the flames to start licking two other buildings, and Damian with reinforcements was nowhere in sight...

She suddenly became aware of a grey mist swirling around them. She initially took it for smoke, but it was moving independently of the fire, circling around, closing in. 

And once it got to the line of the soldiers, they began to scream - and collapse.

It was only then that she realised Regis abandoned his resolution of not getting directly involved and came to her aid, picking victims in a way that allowed him to remain undetected for as long as possible. 

It worked, as she couldn’t spot him at all, in either his human or his vampire form. He was far too fast for that; she could only follow the trail of his strikes. 

Ciri put aside her surprise, her gratitude, her curiosity, as well as her panic, and put every bit of her attention back into the fight. She had to finish it as quickly as possible. 

  


***

 _Blood._

_Its scent is rich, alluring, calling to him._

_The beast has awoken. He can feel it stretching within him, its claws extending. It hasn’t made a move to take over - not yet._

_It will, though. And soon._

_Time is crucial here, so he tries to buy himself some, focusing on the task at hand, but the velvet notes assault him from all directions. Impossible to ignore, they're mercilessly tugging at his senses: distracting, delicious._

_Dangerous._

_The beast squirms and hisses, getting more and more impatient; his curse, his nightmare - be it his true nature, or his addiction, he no longer knows. He doesn't even know if they can - and should - be seen as separate._

**I won’t allow you to take control,** _he thinks at the beast with all the willpower he can muster as he chooses his next target._ **She needs me.**

 _He can feel the monster trying to free itself from the cage of his human shape; its teeth bared, its claws trying to tear apart the restraints that bind it in place, made entirely of his self-control. The beast is unrelenting, merciless,_ thirsty _. It’s strong too - he forgot just how strong, he realises, as he’s struggling to maintain focus, which gets more and more difficult between the decadent scent surrounding him and the internal struggle he faces._

 **You failed her once before __** _, he snarls at the monster with all the fury and despair and_ fear _boiling inside him, but as the memories flash in his mind, his resolve solidifies._

_He was asked to find her. He was asked to protect her. Instead, he drank._

**It will not happen again. Not now. Not ever**.

_The beast recoils at that, as if snapped; it growls, its teeth out, but to his utmost relief it retreats, hiding in the dark depths of his mind - tamed for the moment, but not beaten._

_Never beaten._

_Regis breathes deeply and focuses on his task._

  


***

With Regis’ help the odds started looking a little better; the cordon around the governor thinning with each of her strikes, with each whirl of a grey mist, and next thing she knew, the Cintrian soldiers flanked her.

There were maybe only ten of them overall, but their arrival gave her the boost she needed. She focused back on the dance of her blade, her body, and her mind, until there was no more blood to draw, until the only man standing was the governor, his expression full of fury - and fear.

She wiped the sweat off her forehead, and noticed with surprise a large, red stain spreading on her right sleeve. She didn't realise she had been wounded; she didn’t even notice.

She heard the movement on her left and turned, just in time to see Moenbeck charging at her, hoping to use her distraction to his advantage. 

She avoided his blade in one fluid move, and channeling her fury, her despair and helplessness, she jumped up, taking a wide swing with her blade and using the momentum to hit him in the head with the hilt of her sword. 

He sank to his knees, dropping his weapon to the ground; she kicked it out of his reach and straightened up to assess the damage.

And froze.

The flames had already consumed the buildings on two corners of the square, and they were spreading far too quickly in all directions. 

The roar of the fire was deafening, the wooden constructions creaked. Filled as they were with oils and grain and spices, the buildings posed no obstacle for the raging element, catching flames like dry grass.

The thick, black smoke filled the square, obscured her vision, hurt her throat. The governor was kneeling in front of her, his arm raised to shield his head - from the heat, from her sword?

Next to him, beside a body of a Nilfgaardian soldier, she spotted a discarded helmet, lying in a pool of blood: a black helmet, its large wings of a bird of prey broken and molten from the heat - and the reality she was struggling to cling to ever since the first alarm had rung slipped from her fingers.

  


***

_No air to breathe, no place to hide, no way out. Inhuman screams, blackened, shapeless piles scattered around; a roar of the flames, a suffocating smoke. She can’t move, can’t escape, frozen to the spot by an unspeakable fear._

_A sea of raging fire everywhere around her. Fire - and death_. 

**NO!**

**__** _Burn, Falka! The White Flame that lights the world!_

**I won't let it happen!**

**__** _Blood on your hands, Falka._

_Blood you spilled._

_Blood of those who tried to protect you._

**No!!**

**__** _The fire burns, but it also purges._

_You are the beginning; you are the end._

_This is your destiny, daughter of Lara._

_Swallow, a symbol of rebirth - and death._

**No…**

**I can’t...let it happen…**

**Not again…**

**NOT AGAIN!**

  


*** 

“We need to get Cirilla and the governor out of there NOW!” Damian roared, trying to be heard over the raging inferno. 

His soldiers were scattered along the edges of the Old Market, safe, but the queen and the governor both were still somewhere in _there_ , amongst the smoke and the fire and death. He thought he caught the sight of something moving, but it was nearly impossible to see anything. 

“No need,” he suddenly heard a familiar voice beside him and spun around, only to see Regis standing with his hand on Moenbeck’s shoulder. The governor looked shaken and dazed, but otherwise unharmed, and for that Damian gave silent thanks to whichever gods were listening. They still had a chance - assuming they could save the city.

“Mortz, Villem, get him to the palace and guard him!” he yelled. 

The soldiers grabbed the governor and led him away and Damian turned back to assess the situation, fighting the hopelessness and the rising panic.

The fire was spreading; it was far too late to try and put it out with the limited resources they had - but the Slaughter could not happen again. Not on his watch. Not _ever_. They had to do something - at the very least, evacuate the city...

“What’s going on?” Damian demanded. “Where is Cirilla?”

“Last I saw, she was still in there. She was lightly wounded, but nothing serious,” Regis turned back towards the fire, his composure cracking. “I tried to get her out too, but she wasn’t listening. I assumed she would follow. I'm going back-”

An inhuman shriek pierced the air and Damian realised it was too late. 

  


***

_“The scenes that took place in the Old Market that fateful morning would remain an inspiration and favourite subject for generations of Cintrian artists._

_The countless paintings, ballads and epics, commemorating the events make it difficult to discern the fiction from the reality, and hide the truth under the numerous artistic embellishments. Here I shall attempt to recreate what happened with all the accuracy possible, relying on the accounts of the few surviving witnesses, including Captain Longruff._

_Those present in the Old Market spoke of a sudden burst of green light, and described how the flames were violently sucked towards a center point where Cirilla kneeled, surrounding her before shooting up into the sky. It was difficult to see anything more than faint shapes through the ring of fire; there was no way of knowing if Cirilla was hurt by the fiery storm she was the center of._

_An burst of wild energy hit them, knocking everyone off their feet. Another magical wave followed, this time freezing cold, blinding them all and pinning them to the spot, covering everything with a thin layer of ice._

_Throughout it all, a high-pitched scream rang, a shriek nearly at the edge of audibility. A sound like that is hard to imagine; harder still to describe - and impossible to forget._

_All of us in Cintra remember the stories of Princess Pavetta’s magical abilities that made themselves known during the legendary banquet celebrating her fifteenth birthday. It became obvious Cirilla had inherited her mother's talent - and that she was even more powerful._

_But where her mother’s outburst of magic wreaked havoc, Cirilla brought down a magical storm to save the city. And saved us she did, for the deadly fire was no more. But, in the eye of the magical storm - being the source of the storm - Cirilla seemed unaware that the threat she was trying to protect us from was over._

_Regis was the first one to overcome the paralysis in an attempt to reach Cirilla through the wild magical forces pulsating around her, to get close enough to her to snap her out of her trance, before she destroyed herself in her desperate act of saving us.”_

  


***

_It takes Regis a moment to get his bearings._

_He can move, but only a little. Magic weighs him down, presses him into the cobblestones, barely giving him a chance to breathe._

_And the sound. The sound is unbearable._

_The fog in his mind lifts a little._

**Gods. Ciri.**

**__** _The shriek drives his enhanced senses into a frenzy, makes it nearly impossible to gather thoughts, but even in his confusion he abruptly realises the fire is no more - but then why isn’t Ciri stopping the outburst?_

_Slowly, he manages to sit down. With the fiery vortex gone, he can now see her - and his heart nearly stops. Kneeling down in the middle of a scorched circle, with her head thrown back, and arms spread, she does not look in control. On the contrary, she looks...possessed._

_Which is likely the reason she didn’t stop it the moment the danger was over._

_He has to do_ something _before it’s too late._

_With effort, he manages to stand up. Each step is like walking through a vicious blizzard and he’s grateful for the fact he’s immune to the cold. The raw magic pulsates around him, its rhythm like a heartbeat, alive, wild, uncontrolled._

_In all his long life, he has never experienced anything like that._

_It’s incredible that humans can still surprise him._

_Not humans, he corrects himself, his thoughts muddled in the sensory storm. There were only a handful of humans who truly shattered his expectations, among them Geralt - and her._

**Ciri!**

_He calls to her, both in his mind, and aloud, hoping to get through to her._

_Something cracks then, shatters. The Power falters, he can feel its waves like silk in the wind, and he braces against them as they wash over him, flowing towards Ciri._

_Her entire body is shaking with violent convulsions, and he realises she’s channeling all the Power through herself, reversing the outburst._

**Swallow.**

**__** _It’s immediate, and he has barely any time to react: the Power is no more, the air free of the static, of the pressure of the raw magic, and Ciri collapses, limp like a rag doll._

_He catches her at the very last moment and the relief makes him dizzy._

_She’s still alive._

_His hands are shaking as he examines her, a brief scan only, as there are no conditions for anything more thorough._

_She doesn’t seem to be hurt, and he can’t detect anything in her blood either - but he is no expert on wounds caused by magic. Under the circumstances, internal damage cannot be ruled out until she comes to._

_He knows she is strong and resilient, but there are bound to be things that can break her; there has to come a day when she overstretches her abilities._

_He’s praying today is not the day._

  


*** 

Daniel Echteverry, the count on Garramone, walked into the tent hesitatingly. Even after all his years of service, he still had very little idea what to expect from the Marshall on any given day, and the vague message the count received didn't make it clearer.

“At last,” Vissegerd snarled at the sight of him and turned to the officer standing in front of him, who clearly wished to be elsewhere. “The message from the capital. Let us have it.”

“ _The harbour and the city are under the control of the Cintrian army, but the fighting still continues near Chociebuz. We suffered significant losses_ -” the soldier’s voice faltered, but he read on, with increasing difficulty. “ _The Nilfgaardian army upon withdrawing set the Old Market area on fire_ …”

The count felt the blood freezing in his veins. _No_. 

“Read,” Vissegerd barked, white on the face.

“ _The danger is over, with minimal losses,_ ” the officer added with a relief they all shared, and inspected the parchment closely. “There’s something more… A post scriptum: _It was the defiled blood that saved us, saved Cintra from fire and death._ ”

Echteverry turned to Vissegerd.

“Marshall, sir?”

“Where’s the messenger?” Vissegerd barked, ignoring him.

“In the officers’ tent, resting,” the soldier replied, his voice faltering again. 

Without another word the Marshall stormed out and Daniel followed - trying to keep up, and make some sense of what was just said.

He heard the rumours, obviously. Everyone heard them - repeated in hushed voices as far from Vissegerd as humanly possible: the rumours that Cirilla did not die _yet again_ , that she was back and planning to take the capital. 

He took those rumours for a product of someone’s vivid imagination, or worse, for misinformation, a bait spread by Redanian agents, aimed to cause unrest amongst the troops.

Now, however…

“Get me the messenger!” Vissegerd shouted.

After a few moments, a boy stood before them, no older than fourteen, shuffling his feet, clasping his hands together to stop them from trembling. 

“Were you in Cintra when the fire happened?” the Marshall demanded.

“I was, si… Sir. But… I didn’t see what ha… Happened… I only heard-”

“What did you hear? Speak!”

“They said… They said the fire surrounded the Old Market,” the boy tried hard to get his voice under control. “They said the queen was right in the middle of it. Next… Something like a wave swept them, they couldn’t move and couldn’t see nothing but green light… And all they could hear was a scream, and then… Then the fire was gone, and the queen collapsed…”

Daniel Echteverry looked from the boy, whose story was nearly too improbable to believe, to the Marshall, his face going through a few shades of purple, with a mix of disbelief and wonder. 

After some further glaring at the boy, Vissegerd turned to him.

“Full combat readiness,” he drawled, as if the words caused him physical pain. “Your battalions leave in three hours. Aim for Chociebuz, look to meet up with Adieu. Farris and Lieuven are to focus on the two Nifgaardian garrisons and on holding the outposts along the Yaruga. Move!”

“At once, sir,” the count bowed, but hesitated for a moment. “Did you… Did you know of this, my lord?”

Vissegerd stared empty-eyed at nothing in particular, as if he hadn’t heard him.

“So it is true,” he said, barely audible. 

Echteverry did not ask any further questions.

  


***

“Who did what?” Morvran Voorhis stared at aep Aeillach, stunned. “Tell me that message is fake.”

The general currently acted as a temporary head of intelligence after de Rideaux’ - to whom Morvran was looking forward to talking - deeply inopportune disappearance. 

“It has all the required magical signatures, Your Majesty,” he turned a little pale. “It appears legitimate.”

The emperor read the message again, fighting the rising fury. 

Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Emhyr’s bloody spawn, the very same he was supposed to marry, had things gone...well, _quite_ differently.

And had Emhyr himself not insisted she had died.

In retrospect, the bastard had not seemed particularly heartbroken over it - but then again, it was a fact well known that the man had no such organ.

“How come then I was given the impression this was nothing but a regular unrest?” Voorhis asked with forced calm.

“That was what it initially seemed like,” aep Aeillach said in a meek voice. “We didn’t get any reports about _her_ until this morning...”

 _Her_ ; as of now the Queen of Cintra, with a claim to the Nilfgaardian throne. It wasn’t a strong claim - not many people were aware of the empress’ background, and with Emhyr dead and de Rideaux gone it would take a considerable effort for Cirilla to prove anything at all. Not to mention she would have the Guild against her as well. But it was a risk factor nonetheless, one he would need to mitigate, one way or another. 

Well, one way, really. 

“A full report, immediately,” he barked, and the general nodded at his aide, who immediately disappeared out of the room. “The governor?”

“Captured, Your Majesty.” 

Voorhis pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the developing headache. By the way things were going it was looking to be his constant companion for the foreseeable future.

A captured governor was bad news - very bad news, in fact; probably more so than Cirilla herself realised, as for her it was likely a gamble. Morvran had no way of knowing how much of the empire's internal affairs she was aware of - likely not much at all; as far as he knew, she hadn’t even been to Nilfgaard. But then again, barely an hour ago he had been convinced she was dead, so he was unwilling to take any more guesses.

“Any word from the queen herself?” he asked. “Any demands yet?”

“None, Your Majesty.”

That meant nothing at all - such a list would arrive, and soon, and he knew perfectly well what it would include. And what he would be forced to do, once he got it.

Moenbeck was a nephew of one of Guild’s most prominent members - the very reason he was elected for the governor’s position in the first place, as a part of Emhyr’s attempts to buy more time and to postpone the Guild’s moves against him. 

Now that fact alone tied Morvran’s hands: the prime reason the imperial chain of office was resting now on his shoulders was his own position in the Guild, and their support. A support he was painfully aware would falter in an instant should his choices lead to Moenbeck’s death. And as many of his predecessors discovered, the lack of Guild’s support often meant the end of an Emperor’s rule. 

He was painfully aware that he wasn't irreplaceable. In fact, the list of people who could step in should he be removed from the position was impressive. 

He may have had the army on his side as well, so he wasn’t only relying on the Guild for support - but it had been a long time now that their voice was the deciding one.

His priority now was to keep the governor alive. He could try to send someone to extract him - and to get rid of the risk factor while at it - but it would take a few days. She already proved she could act quickly; he doubted he had enough time to put together a plan, and implement it.

The use of the brute strength of the imperial army also was out of the question - the nearest garrison large enough to make a difference was in Nazair, nearly a week’s march south. 

It very much seemed like his only option to keep the Guild happy was to agree to whatever demands would come from Cintra - for now - and to bide his time until a more opportune occasion presented itself. 

By the Great Sun, how he despised that pathetic northern province.

And what made it even worse was the realisation that - as if the last ten years hadn't been enough - Emhyr had somehow found a way to fuck with him even from beyond his grave.

  


***

The very first thing Ciri registered when she came to was silence. The next was the fact that she wasn’t in pain; in fact, she was quite comfortable. Then she recognised the scent of all the herbs in the world as she felt a cool hand on her forehead. 

“Welcome back, Swallow,” Regis’ voice brought her back fully and helped her shake the lingering confusion. 

She opened her eyes and looked around, trying to put together all the missing pieces. She was lying in a large, soft bed; the room was dark and her eyes struggled to recognise any shapes that would help her figure out where she was, and why. She couldn't even tell if it was night or day.

“How bad is it?” she murmured, closing her eyes again and holding her breath in anticipation of the answer. 

“Two warehouses, Customs House and the buildings of the Coopers’ Guild,” Regis replied, his voice gentle. “The Merchants’ Guild was planning to sue the Crown for damages, until Gusti, in a few short and not particularly elegant words, made them realise that, had it not been for your quick - and may I say, spectacular, if a little unorthodox - reaction, all their warehouses would have been destroyed.”

She let the breath out carefully. It wasn't nearly as bad as she had feared, but this wasn't all the news yet...

“How many dead?”

“In the fire? Some dozen,” he said quietly. “Mostly in the Guild buildings. The Nilfgaardians chose the trade district to cause as much damage as possible; from there the fire would have spread the fastest, not to mention that most of the supplies would have been lost. Fortunately, as you well know, it is also the part of the city with the lowest density.”

“Fire…?”

“You killed it almost instantly. I have never seen anything quite like that,” she heard his voice changing slightly. “Most of the buildings that were destroyed had already been weakened by the flames, but some sadly suffered collateral damage. The imperial army, withdrawing through the Southern Gate, did try to set the fire to that part of the city too, but luckily for us - less so for them - they came across the dwarves’ unit. The rest of the city is undamaged.”

She fell silent, digesting his words.

“What happened then?” she asked uneasily. “Did you put me into a vampire trance?”

“I was planning to,” she heard a smile in his voice. “But there was no such need. When you heard me, you stopped the magical outburst yourself. You weren't able to channel that much energy, though, and you lost consciousness. I was worried you might have caused yourself some serious harm: brain haemorrhage or internal bleeding seemed likely risks after what you put your mind and body through. Fortunately that doesn't seem to be the case. You cannot possibly know how relieved I am that you are awake, and coherent.”

She opened her eyes and stared into the darkness, memories coming back slowly. Contrary to the previous outbursts, she did remember fragments of this one: her panic, the raw power she was only a vessel for, but also her fury and above all else, her focus and determination to stop the fire, to prevent another tragedy, no matter the cost. 

It dawned on her that all Avallac’h’s training she’d hated so much hadn't been in vain after all; it seemed she’d finally gained some level of control over the wilder aspects of her talent. It was still shaky, but it was better than none. 

Suddenly a new memory, one of a grey smoke and dying screams resurfaced in her mind and she abruptly sat up. She was able to see a little now in the darkness of the room, and she had to _know_ , she had to see his face. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked. “You were afraid of what might happen if you got directly involved...”

She thought she saw him wince a little, but she couldn’t be sure. Still, she reached out and found his hand.

“I’m fine, Swallow,” he replied in a soft voice, briefly covering her hand with his. “Experience - and memories - make the urges to drink easier to control.”

“Thank you, again,” she grimaced. “My debt is growing by the day. I don't think it's humanly possible to ever repay you for all you have done for me.”

“There is really no need for that,” he touched her cheek gently. “I am ever at your service, for whatever you might need of me, Your Highness.

“Speaking of which,” he added after a moment, the familiar irony back in his voice (and damn, but she’d _missed it)_. “I feel I should warn you; the stories of what happened at the Old Market are already circulating among the army and the city folk, gaining colour and scope with each repetition. 

“But that's not all,” he continued with barely disguised amusement. She glared at him, expecting the worst. “It appears your heroic actions have earned you a new title; I was told you are being referred to as… How did Alvar phrased it…? Ah, yes,” Regis cleared his throat, “ _The Icy Flame of Cintra_.”

She shook her head. _Great_. 

“Well, it could be worse,” she decided. “It's not even the most ridiculous thing I've been called over the years. What about the governor?”

“He’s being kept locked away and is awaiting your recovery. Impatiently, I would imagine.”

“How long have I been out for?”

“A little over a day. It’s almost midday,” he got up and moved away, and she had to cover her eyes briefly when he opened the heavy curtains, allowing a bit of a light into the chamber.

“At least I didn’t miss too much,” she sighed. “What’s the situation in the country?”

“Improving, quite unexpectedly,” he smiled at her. “A few hours ago a messenger came. Vissegerd is keeping some of his battalions at the border to get the control over the last remaining Nilfgaardian outposts, but the rest is being sent as reinforcements for the Free Company on the Marnadal Plains.”

“Vissegerd?” she repeated, surprised. 

“Indeed. I took the liberty of preparing the report that was sent to him,” his smile widened, fangs in full display, which made him look a little feral. She had a quiet suspicion it was deliberate. 

“Really?” she drawled. “And what exactly did you put in there?”

“Oh, nothing too elaborate,” Regis shrugged, looking immensely pleased with himself. “Just a brief summary of the events, and a post scriptum: something about the defiled blood that saved the city…”

She shook her head, laughing quietly.

“And it worked?”

“Clearly,” he flashed her another smile. “He couldn’t refuse to come to your aid after the news broke; not once you proved your identity beyond any doubt - and not without causing a mutiny. I simply gave him a chance to save his face.”

“A mutiny wouldn’t be that bad…” she grinned at him and he chuckled.

“A message from Tankred arrived this morning too,” he added. “The ships from Kovir should reach Cintra in a five days’ time.”

She fell silent as unspeakable relief flooded her. Against all odds, her gamble seemed to be working. 

“Did you just win my uprising without me?” 

“Not at all,” Regis protested, his tone warm and affectionate. “I'd hazard a claim that the uprising was won the moment you saved Cintra from fire and death. The rest, Your Highness, are but administrative details.”

  


***

“I can't believe-”

“...but the empress-”

“Whoever is behind it-”

The ruckus died down immediately when Tankred walked into the room. He took his seat, looked around the flushed faces of the members of his small council, and smiled.

“My lords and ladies, I'm certain the news from Cintra have already reached you, but allow me to confirm them officially: the rightful queen has indeed returned and the city has been recaptured. As we speak, the negotiations are taking place, but with the governor held captive, and the imperial army suffering defeats near Chociebuz, I don't expect them to take too long. I don't have a detailed report yet, so I will not be able to fully satisfy your understandable curiosity, but if you have questions, do speak.“

He sat back, and waited.

“Is it truly the Lion Cub of Cintra herself?” the State Treasurer asked, bewildered. 

“Without a shadow of a doubt, Lord Heyden,” Tankred replied, thinking of a certain pair of green eyes drilling mercilessly into his skull. He never met Queen Calanthe, but Cirilla did seem her worthy successor.

“But what about the late empress?” Heyden did not look convinced. 

“An impostor, used by the emperor to legally bind Cintra to Nilfgaard.”

That revelation was met with a few gasps, together with some curses and shaking heads.

“She couldn’t have done this alone,” Adamane, the only other mage except for Triss Merigold who sat at the council semi-regularly, cut in with a frown. “Who helped her?” 

“Lyria, Skellige,” Tankred nodded at the man. It was always satisfying to be proven right, but that felt almost too easy _._ Dijkstra was usually more subtle when planting spies, so this was likely a smokescreen; further caution was still necessary. 

A complicated and time consuming project for a few mages, far away from capital, was called for here.

“And the Free Company,” he added, seemingly as an afterthought. “Further reinforcements set sail from Lan Exeter two days ago. They should reach Cintra in under a week.” 

The whole room fell silent and most of the people, except for the Marshall, who was involved from the beginning - and Triss Merigold, he noticed - stared at him in confusion. 

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” Silvio Perricho, the representative of the Guilds, broke the silence, frowning slightly. “What happened to the legendary neutrality of Kovir? You undoubtedly realise this puts some of us in a rather uncomfortable position.”

“Last I remember, Speaker Perricho, you promised to use your contacts in the guilds to improve the regularity of the shipments of livestock and grain,” Tankred replied, making it sound like an uncertainty on his part. “That was, as I recall, some two months ago? The stock numbers are at their all time low. I have men looking into this to determine if it is a result of incompetence, or if some external factors were involved.”

The man made the smallest gesture, not nearly a flinch; Tankred would have missed it had he not been watching out for just that. Some officials were still not taking him seriously; it suited him fine. Once the union with Cintra became a fact, the balance of power would shift enough to allow him for some more direct moves. 

It was frankly so _tiring_ to be surrounded by people one couldn’t trust. The vague idea he wanted to present Cirilla with took more and more defined shape with each passing day.

“In the meantime, however,” Tankred continued as if nothing at all happened, “I was presented with an unprecedented proposition by our new queen, and I chose to act on it.” 

“What did the queen’s proposition involve exactly?” Perricho wasn’t the one to give up.

Tankred gave him a cool smile.

“The Council will be notified as soon as the details are finalised,” he looked around the table. “Any other questions?

“Any news on the queen herself?” Triss spoke, her voice quiet.

“Last I heard, she single-handedly saved the capital from a devastating fire. I shouldn't think you have any reasons to worry about her, my lady,” Tankred smiled. 

It wasn't all good news though - it was becoming clear that even though his intelligence had detailed records of half of Cirilla’s life, there were some essential elements that were still missing from the picture, like the scope and nature of her abilities, for example. 

It was then high time to fill the gaps. 

“In fact, I plan to go to Cintra in a few days, and I would like to ask you, miss Merigold, to arrange it - and to join me.”

“Naturally, Your Highness,” she gave him a graceful bow, but he couldn't shake a feeling she wasn't too pleased.

Yet another mystery to solve. This was getting interesting - even a little too interesting for his taste.

  


***

Yarpen and Zoltan found Ciri in the empty throne room, sitting on the rocky steps leading up to the throne itself. She wasn’t alone.

“Regis, by me beard!” Zoltan shook the barber’s hand vigorously. “Yarpen, meet Emiel Regis, a friend of Geralt’s and a magician, who conjured the best moonshine I’ve e’er had in me long life. And I’d like to think of meself as an expert in these matters.”

“It is not my doing,” Regis smiled that tight-lipped smile of his. “That mandrake was truly special.”

“Aye, it was… What are ye doing here?”

“Advising the queen,” Regis made half a bow in Ciri’s direction, who was watching their exchange with amusement, “at her explicit wish.”

Zoltan shook his head, laughing.

“It’s impossible to refuse that lass, eh?”

“Impossible indeed,” the barber-surgeon smiled.

“We’re here unofficially, Ciri,” Yarpen said apologetically, turning to her. “As officially Mahakam remains neutral.”

“But it wouldn’t do, to not swing one’s sword for the Lion Cub!” Zotan shook his fist to make his point.

“It wouldn’t do, no,” Yarpen nodded. “But that unfortunately means most of us can’t stay too long. In fact, I’ll be takin’ my boys back tomorrow night at the latest.”

“So soon?” Ciri grimaced. “I thought you’d stay at least until the coronation!”

“I wish, Little Goose,” Yarpen shook his head with a smile, “But my return to Mahakam came with a price.”

“Zoltan?” Ciri turned to him.

“Aye, lassie, I’m stayin’,” he grinned at her. “Someone has to drink all the toasts to our new queen.”

“Speakin’ of,” Yarpen reached into his pouch and took a small bundle wrapped in a soft cloth. “This is for you, Ciri. From old friends. So that you remember.”

She reached out slowly, took the cloth from him and unwrapped it - and gasped. Zoltan grinned, delighted with her reaction. On her palm, a large emerald of outstanding beauty laid; a teardrop of deep green, it's sharp, elegant cuts catching and reflecting the light. An intricate platinum ornament and a short chain completed the picture. 

“Stunning,” Regis said quietly. “Simply stunning.”

“I…” Ciri’s voice faltered. “Thank you…”

She got up and hugged them both, her eyes glistening.

“Allow me,” Regis took the pendant from her and put it around her neck carefully.

“Perfect,” Zoltan declared proudly. “Indeed a stone worthy of the Queen of Cintra.”

She blushed.

“Thank you. For everything.”

“Don't mention it,” Yarpen smiled. “How are the negotiations goin’?”

“Not going, really,” Ciri grimaced. “The governor is nothing but a puppet. We're waiting for the answer from the capital.”

“And what do ye think that answer will be?” Zoltan frowned.

“It all depends on how important our puppet is,” Ciri rubbed her forehead with a sigh. “Could be that the imperial reinforcements are marching north as we speak.”

“My friends will let us know soon if they are,” Regis cut in, his voice reassuring. 

Ciri took a deep breath and nodded, turning her attention back to them.

“Thank you again. If there's ever anything you need-”

“Aye, we'll show up,” Yarpen laughed. “Good luck, Ciri.”

  


***

“Your Excellency…”

“Speak, Torren,” Dijkstra gritted his teeth. “Do fucking speak.”

“Cintra… The orders for the Nilfgaardian army to stand down arrived…”

Dijkstra swore. So that was it. A week - so close, yet so ploughing far.

“Do we know yet where Cirilla got the army from? There were only a handful of Skellige longboats, and those mysterious ships from Lan Exeter you reported on are still on their way to wherever the fuck they’re going.”

Torren winced a little.

“The city was attacked by the combined forces of Cintra and Skellige. The border, by the Lyrians and the Free Company.”

“Paid for by whom?”

“We don't know that yet,” the spy muttered.

“Oh, but we do,” Dijkstra growled, thinking back to his own trip to the cold, rainy north years ago, a trip that yielded similar results. Cirilla’s plan suddenly unraveled itself before his eyes, instantly clear and so fucking _obvious_. And all he could do was to sit and watch it play out. “We fucking do. Pray tell, has the engagement of our new queen to King Tankred of Kovir been made public yet?”

“Engagement…? But the uprising is barely over…”

Dijkstra cursed again. Idiots, idiots everywhere, and with his opponents uniting behind his back, this could not get any fucking _worse._

  


***

Damian’s entire being was focused on Regis, on studying his movements, his expression; he knew Fabian’s state was critical, he had seen it many times before and he wasn't counting on a miracle, _not really_. But his heart refused to acknowledge that, clinging to the last threads of broken hope. 

But when Regis turned away from the bed to wipe his hands in a cloth, his expression and his lips pressed together told Damian everything he didn't want to know.

“I'm so deeply sorry,” the surgeon said, shaking his head. “All I am able to do for him is to ease his pain. I wish with all my heart I had better news.”

Damian found himself unable to find words, so he only nodded. He was faintly aware of Regis’ hand on his shoulder.

“I'll go find Ciri,” the surgeon said quietly and went out of the room, leaving him alone. 

  


***

Damian felt numb, empty. Disconnected. He walked aimlessly, following some inner urge to keep _moving_ , to keep the dreadful, cold stillness of death away.

It was only when he found himself surrounded by the silence and darkness, lit up only by a handful of candles, did he recognise the place his legs brought him to: the palace crypts. 

He stopped and put his hand on one of the tombs; its marble facade was cool to the touch, solid in a way he found comforting, as he tried to get his emotions under some control. 

Fabian was not the first friend he had lost, nor would he be the last. But the fact that he died fighting for that dream of theirs - the one they all had lived with for years; the one that was just barely weaving itself into existence, with Fabian no longer here to witness it… The pure _unfairness_ of it choked him and made him want to scream in equal measure. 

He took a deep breath, forcing the anger and the pain down. He wiped his face and felt his hand getting wet - he didn't realise he was crying. He knew he should have been going back, he knew there were hundred of things that needed his attention, but he - couldn't. Not just yet.

Instead, he walked further into the darkness, towards the central point. 

That was where he found Cirilla: in front of Queen Calanthe’s statue, sitting on the rocky floor with her legs crossed, staring at the Queen’s marble face. Wet trails glistened on her cheeks in the candlelight. 

With his demons roaring, he was in no shape to deal with anyone, especially not the _queen_. He quietly turned to leave, but he was too slow; her words stopped him in his tracks.

“I’m trying to validate it somehow,” her voice was soft, and shaking a little, he registered absent-mindedly. “Fabian and all the others, dying for this idea of mine.” 

He turned back to her and saw his own pain and anger reflected in her expression. 

“I am so, so sorry, Damian,” she said slowly. “And I _know_ these are only empty, meaningless words. I knew well there would be a price to pay and I went ahead with the plan anyway.”

He kept silent for another moment, trying to find some path through the storm raging inside him. With another breath he felt the claws clutching at his throat releasing their grip a little. 

“Not meaningless,” he managed. 

She gestured for him to sit down; he was trying to come up with some reasonable excuse to run away, but his brain failed to supply any, so he had no choice but to obey.

“How close were you?” she asked quietly.

He hesitated, but to his utmost surprise he found himself telling her everything: the way Fabian would always excel at the academy, the annoyingly smart comments he was all too eager to drop at all times; the childish, stupidly dangerous rebellion they almost staged, the bonding afterwards. The years of friendship that followed. 

She listened intently, asking questions, and he felt his anger subsiding, leaving only sorrow in its wake.

“He wanted nothing more than to see Cintra free,” he said quietly, as much for his own sake, as for hers. “I wish he _could_. But if I was given a choice, this is how I would want to go too: fighting for something worthy, something important; something I am ready to give up my life for.”

She looked at him with a strange expression.

“Sending people to death,” she said slowly. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that.” She glanced at the sculpture. “How did _she_ do it?”

“Mostly, by example. She was always in the first line of charge,” he managed a small smile. “And I somehow doubt you will have any problem with _that_ , my queen.”

  


***

“Did you hear about Cintra, my lord?”

De Rideaux looked up from his tankard at the errant knight sitting across the table from him. The man had been trying to engage him in a conversation for a while now, and the spy had ignored him so far, but he simply couldn’t ignore _that_.

“Dijkstra attacked?”

“By my heron, on the contrary!” the knight laughed, the bird on his chest prominent enough to justify being brought into the conversation. “Just like in a fairytale: the Lion Cub returned!”

For the briefest of moments, in the place of the man opposite him, de Rideaux saw brilliant green eyes brimming with tears, and hands covered with blood. 

“What happened? And how did you hear of this, sir?”

“A Nilfgaardian messenger came to the court earlier today,” the knight said, delighted. Toussaint had to be the only place on the continent where a change at the border was met with glee - assuming the story behind it was romantic enough - rather than with hesitant apprehension. “There was an uprising that the Cintrians won; the governor signed the treaty restoring the border along the mountains. The Niflgaardian armies are withdrawing from Cintra as we speak. They say the queen herself saved the city from a deadly fire. Can you even imagine this, my lord?”

De Rideaux shook his head. Not nearly a month; this was how long it took her. Like father, like daughter...

“Yes,” he answered quietly, “in fact, I can.”

  


***

The city looked wounded, but defiant and proud.

Nobody paid him any mind as he rode through the narrow streets. He wrapped himself in a nondescript travelling cloak adorned with large hood to hide his identity for as long as possible, and the fact the city was bustling with activity helped his cause greatly. 

Only when he got to the palace was he was stopped by two soldiers guarding the gate. The minimal security measures did surprise him a little, although Cirilla had proven she was rather capable of looking after her own safety, with the army likely needed elsewhere. Still, it was telling. 

Also worrying, as she was now an easy target.

He removed the hood and stared down at the soldiers with his best expression of authority.

“What are you looking for here, Nilfgaardian?” the younger of the two guards demanded, his hand on the hilt of his sword, while the other blocked his way with a halberd - likely from the Palace Guard, de Rideaux thought; as the regular army didn't use those.

“I seek an audience with the Queen of Cintra,” de Rideaux replied calmly.

“The Queen doesn’t do audiences,” the halberdier growled. “You’re late. Your folk have already left.”

“Which is lucky as otherwise I wouldn’t have made it out of the city alive,” the spy said.

“That might still happen,” the blade of the halberd was balancing perilously close to his head. 

“Gentlemen, please,” a new voice interrupted calmly from behind him. 

The man who spoke moved into the spy’s peripheral vision and revealing himself to be a slim, middle-aged man with greyish hair, dressed entirely in elegant blacks, with no visible emblems of position. His scent was a strong, strange combination of herbs and spices, and de Rideaux’ horse protested loudly at such an assault on its senses. 

“Let us not make hasty decisions here,” the man smiled. “What does our guest request?”

“To talk to the Queen,” the younger soldier answered.

“Interesting,” the elderly man studied the spy for a moment. “What would a Nilfgaardian noble have to say to our queen?”

“This is to be discussed between her and myself. In private,” de Rideaux replied coldly. “We met during her stay in Nilfgaard.”

The man gave him yet another measuring look, then turned to the guards. 

“Let him in, Damian. I’ll take him to Ciri.”

“Are you sure, master surgeon?” the halberdier asked. 

“Indeed I am.”

The younger soldier - Damian - looked from him to the man, and eventually he nodded at his companion, who stepped aside reluctantly. De Rideaux dismounted, and followed the surgeon into the palace courtyard. A stable boy ran to him to take his horse away, and the two of them walked towards the palace.

“Thank you for your help, my lord,” de Rideaux said quietly.

The man stopped and turned to him.

“I do not sense any falsehood in your claim,” he said in a calm tone, dropping any etiquette. “But make no mistake - if you are plotting anything against Ciri, you will not succeed - and you will not leave this place alive.”

The spy felt his throat going dry at the threat, delivered in a matter-of-fact tone. The halberdier called the man a surgeon, but it was clear that was a gross understatement. 

“I understand.”

His mysterious companion gave him another look, before turning and leading him to the palace, through the empty throne room and into one of the side chambers.

Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the rightful heir to the throne of Nilfgaard and the queen of Cintra, turned away from the window. Except for a large emerald of outstanding beauty that caught light on her chest, she did not wear any other symbols of her new position. Like father, like daughter indeed.

“Regis? What… De Rideaux?” she asked in surprise, recognising him. “What are you doing here?”

The spy cast a meaningful glance at his companion. The man only smiled.

“Forget it, my lord,” Cirilla said immediately in response to his silent suggestion. “Meet Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, a barber-surgeon from Dillingen, a dear friend, and an invaluable advisor. Regis, this is Vattier de Rideaux, until recently the head of imperial military intelligence, Emhyr’s right-hand man.”

Advisor, barber-surgeon - and still nothing that would explain the earlier threat. 

“I left Nilfgaard soon after you, Your Highness,” the spy said quietly. Cirilla walked over to the large desk and sat down, gesturing for him to follow. Regis moved to stand a step behind her, his eyes never leaving Vattier. “I wasn’t going to wait to become a prisoner of the new regime.”

He broke off and wondered if it was misplaced sentiment that drove him - the likes of which got people killed. Then again, his entire career, and with it his life as he knew it, was over the day the emperor had died. 

He had nothing to lose. 

“I wanted to request an asylum, Your Highness. I offer my knowledge and experience, should you see it worthwhile to avail of them.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Surely that’s a death sentence for you? An extremely painful one at that?”

“Unless I choose to live in hiding in some faraway place for the rest of my days, everything is a death sentence for me after the coup,” de Rideaux smiled a sad smile. “In Nilfgaardian politics, a change at the helm often means the gallows for many - if they're lucky. I know it well; I personally arranged it for the organisers of the previous coup, many of them with Guild connections. They've been waiting to settle the score for a long time.”

“Is your offer not the highest form of treason?” her advisor suggested, his tone all polite curiosity. 

“The highest form of treason was the murder of the emperor,” de Rideaux shot back.

“Why did you come?” Cirilla asked sharply. ”Do think long and deep about your answer. You’re offering a powerful tool, and rest assured, I will use it. But first, I need to be certain of your motives. And I need you to be certain of them.”

That was a question he had been asking himself, over and over, ever since he heard of her victory those few days back in Toussaint, and later, during the long ride to Cintra. 

And as she was watching him with that familiar, calculating focus in her eyes, he realised he knew the answer.

She was the only link he had left to what had been - and the only choice he could have made to keep a small part of his life, and that scrap of honour he hoped he still had.

“I swore my oath to the empire,” he answered quietly. “But not to the Merchants’ Guild. I mourn the direction the empire is heading in, and with the emperor's death I lost the position to be able to influence it from within. Besides,” he paused again, and took a breath, “my allegiance had always been to var Emreis and a var Emreis I intend to continue to serve.”

Cirilla darted a quick look at her advisor, who gave her a barely visible nod. 

“If I was to believe you, and take you up on your generous offer,” she said slowly, looking back at him, “what ideas do you have about your protection? Surely nobody can know you’re here.”

“Especially since for anyone looking to confirm the queen’s parentage, your presence in Cintra serves as an excellent proof,” Regis cut in.

He did have this part prepared: an illusion charm, powerful enough not to trigger warnings all around; some type of an amulet or something similar. He would need to consult a mage on the details, but Cirilla seemed to have followed his line of reasoning. 

“We will have to wait till Yennefer is here,” she said thoughtfully once he finished. “But that doesn't sound too complicated. Is that all you expect in return?” she tilted her head, her eyes narrowing, that emerald gaze of hers seemingly drilling into his soul, or whatever was left of it. “What is your price, my lord?”

He thought about her question for a moment, trying to decide on the best approach, one that would make him the least suspicious in her eyes. He did want to win her trust, after all. 

Before he could come up with some reasonable answer, she reached out and rang a small bell.

“Since you can’t seem to make up your mind,” she said as a chamberlain walked in. “Marten, do show our guest here to the visitors chambers.”

Dismissed, he stood up, bowed and turned to leave, but her voice stopped him.

“De Rideaux.”

The spy looked back at her.

“I want your answer tomorrow.”

He bowed again and left, feeling their eyes following him.

  


***

When de Rideaux left, Ciri turned to Regis.

“Are you _sure_? This sounds almost too good to be true - or safe for Cintra, for that matter.”

The vampire thought her question through. 

“He's conflicted - and unsurprisingly so, given the circumstances - but he spoke the truth,” he replied. “I’d say the opportunity is too good to let it pass.”

Ciri nodded and relaxed.

“If you say so,” she flashed him a smile. “I’ll get the message out to Geralt and Yennefer immediately. I can't wait to have them both here.”

“Indeed,” Regis smiled at her in response. “Neither can I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are life. I'm also on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/andordean) \- come say hi!


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